


Little Beast

by Nanoochka



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Angst, Bottom Will, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Relationship, Discussions of Suicide, Domestic, First Time, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Hannibal needs to use his words, Implied forced drugging, M/M, Major Character Injury, Murder Husbands, Past Relationship(s), Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Post-Fall (Hannibal), Post-Season/Series 03, Psychopaths In Love, Relationship Negotiation, Top Hannibal, Will POV, discussion of gender roles, references to cannibalism, wound care
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-14
Updated: 2017-03-27
Packaged: 2018-10-02 11:10:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 25,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10216664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nanoochka/pseuds/Nanoochka
Summary: Will wakes up after his and Hannibal's swan dive off the cliff. Nothing has changed, and everything.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ironically this was the first Hannibal fic I started writing after the finale and has taken me the longest to actually write. Most of it is finished, so I promise it won't get abandoned. Updates will happen weekly. The tags will change with each additional chapter and I'll update warnings at the end.
> 
> As usual, my deepest thanks to my girls R.C., Ess, Febricant, and, Chai for a year+ of handholding on this fic.

The second time Will Graham came back from the dead, he woke to a bleak winter morning, a blade of cold sunlight that cut across his vision with searing, painful abruptness. Before him the Atlantic stretched to infinity in tumultuous grey glory, Will suspended above it like a lonely cloud. He was at first confused. He thought, _Is this what’s been waiting for us?_ But then his lungs and ribs expanded with the next breath, and the powerful sea winds buffeted the windows hard enough to make the whole house creak, and Will realized this wasn’t heaven or hell or purgatory. Not the afterlife. Just after.

As it turned out, “after” was no picnic. His face and chest were on fire; his shoulder throbbed with a dull, almost unbearable ache, and every part of him was bruised tender, beaten, raw. He felt as though he’d run a thousand miles, muscles in his arms and legs screaming with recent exertion. It should have been sobering as a knife to the gut, but Will’s head felt wrapped in cotton batting, everything simultaneously muffled and too sharp like a bad hangover.

Drugs, then. A lot of them. Even so, they barely seemed to take the edge off the pain. Will tried to groan, but the most he could manage was a small, frankly pathetic mewl before he shuddered and squeezed his eyes closed again, blocking out the sight and sound of the churning Atlantic. The noise drew movement from the other side of the bed, a shifting of the body next to him.

There were times--many times, too many to count--Will had woken up in a hospital with no immediate recollection of how or why he got there, working backwards in time with his injuries as the map to arrive at an explanation that made sense. This wasn’t one of them. He was in a huge, well-lit bedroom decorated in sumptuous browns and velvety greys. Every inch screamed elegance and taste. Screamed _Hannibal_. Even the sheets felt like money, and their soft, woodsy scent beneath Will’s night sweat breathed memories back into him like the sun breathed life into a tree.

The taste of sea air lingered on his tongue, and there was a ghostly sting of icy water on his skin. With his eyes closed, he could still feel the reassuring steady thump of Hannibal’s heart beneath his cheek as they held each other close and breathed on the cliffside, then the shriek of wind as they tumbled over the edge. After that the sequence of events that led to him waking up in Hannibal’s bedroom were blurry, closed to his mind, but it was unimportant. That there was an _after_ at all told him everything he needed to know. More or less. The only logical explanation was Hannibal had pulled them from the water.

Will wasn’t dismayed by how close he came to dying. He was dismayed he _hadn’t_. After all, didn’t someone once say death was the only pure, beautiful conclusion of a great passion? He’d meant to end it before the darkness overtook him completely, before passion overruled the last remaining shreds of his better nature--and maybe, if he were honest with himself, as atonement for the blood he’d already shed. But a larger part of himself had needed Hannibal, bathed in blood and violence and utterly beautiful in the moonlight, eyes full as they gazed at each other, to be the last thing he saw forever.

And yet. It seemed he and fate had suffered a difference of opinion. If the universe didn’t want him to become Hannibal’s bride, it had a funny way of showing it.

 _Lord make me chaste,_ _but not yet,_ Will thought wryly, if bitterly, the words drifting to him out of nowhere. It sounded like something Hannibal would say.

If only they’d died and this were a new circle of hell to endure together. But Hannibal’s body beside him was warm, his weight dipping the mattress more on one side, and his breaths were slightly laboured. No, they were very much alive.

Bracing himself, Will shifted painfully onto his good side, which in this case was the side where Dolarhyde stabbed him twice. In addition to the entry wounds on his right, his left arm was in a sling fashioned from a shirt. Nothing felt broken. Dislocated shoulder, most likely. He opened his eyes again and found Hannibal looking back at him. One way or another, Hannibal was always looking back at him.

“What,” Will managed intelligently, and for once his confusion drew no answering look of amusement.

“You’re awake” was all Hannibal said, and the words were filled with exhaustion and relief that spoke of a very long night indeed. To see him regard an outcome as uncertain was startling, but he blinked at Will with effort, a sad reminder that, despite Will’s current state, he wasn’t the one who’d been shot in the gut and thrown off a cliff. But then, stealing Will’s earlier thoughts straight out of his head, Hannibal added, “Perhaps you wish you were not.”

“I wish I didn’t feel like I’d been hit by a truck,” Will answered, which was not quite the truth but not quite a lie either. “How--”

Minutely Hannibal shook his head. He closed his eyes again, for so long he might have been asleep, dead, or just wool-gathering. For a moment Will itched to hover a hand above Hannibal’s mouth, feeling for breath the way he used to when his dad fell asleep on the couch and Will couldn’t see his chest move. Then Hannibal opened his eyes into slits, staring at him for a few beats before he sighed.

“A couple of days have passed since we fell. You were mostly unconscious while I saw to our injuries.” Not that Hannibal seemed much better, if his breath, hitching in pain, was anything to go by. It also didn’t escape Will’s notice that Hannibal said “fell” instead of “when you pushed us.” It was more charitable than Will would have been were their situations reversed. “This house is the only thing around for miles, so we have returned to where we began. Dolarhyde wasn’t a sloppy hunter; he covered his tracks. We’ll be safe here until it’s time to move on.”

Will ignored the “we.” It was safer to extrapolate why he felt so fucked up. God knew if Hannibal dosed them with proper painkillers or half a bottle of NyQuil left over from three years ago. Christ. But judging from the thick bandages on his chest and the stitches he could feel when he tentatively pushed his tongue against the inside of his cheek, Hannibal must have more or less found what he needed.

Will naturally had questions. But… later. For once it was simpler to take Hannibal’s advice and quit worrying so damn much.

“Are you--alright?” he asked instead, and his breath caught when Hannibal quirked the corner of his mouth up.

“Yes. I will live. And so will you. My clever, remarkable boy.” There was less bitterness in his voice than the words, though he didn’t sound unwary. Did that mean Will was forgiven again? Hannibal said his compassion for Will was inconvenient, but surely even he had his limits. Or maybe this settled the balance. Set the scales back to zero so they could begin anew: _tabula rasa_.

It didn’t matter. Never again would Hannibal have to mete out his forgiveness in blood; that was behind them now. Instead Will got his arm out from under him and tentatively brushed his fingers against Hannibal’s cheek, beneath shadows under his eyes so dark they could be bruises. He was… remarkably sorry to have put them there, to say nothing of the scars they both wore under their skin. Private carnage, Margot would have called it. He sensed Hannibal felt the same.

“You do not remember the events that followed our tumble,” Hannibal observed, watching him.

“No, not really. I remember hitting the water. Everything else... is a blur.”

“Perhaps it will return to you in time.”

Will tried to shrug and instantly regretted it. “Maybe. Not that it makes a difference. We’re here now.”

“So we are.” Hannibal sounded as though he wasn’t entirely convinced Will got the point, but he said nothing further.

“You should get some rest,” Will murmured. For a brief moment, Hannibal turned his face into Will’s touch, sighing a long breath against Will’s hand. His bare shoulders were pale and strangely vulnerable above the bedcovers. He used to be very tan, and the sight was enough to make Will’s chest clench with a strange, savage possessiveness.

Hannibal closed his eyes, and they stayed closed. Will settled in to keep watch, his gaze never once leaving Hannibal’s face.

 

+

 

Some time later the urge to piss drove him out of bed, an arduous process made even worse by the discovery his ankle was sprained, possibly broken. Hannibal had wrapped it, but Will winced with every step, hobbling down the hallway until he found the door that led to a bathroom. He couldn’t shake the powerful feeling of exhaustion in his muscles, every inch of him sore as though he’d been tenderized.

Even his dick felt bruised. As Will suffered through the act of relieving himself, he stared at himself in the mirror. The collection of injuries on his face, swollen purple in areas and scratched raw in others, stared back. Violent bruises continued down his body from the fight with Dolarhyde or hitting the water or both. Admittedly, though, it wasn’t as bad as he first thought. Will once held his intestines in his hands while he bled out on Hannibal’s kitchen floor; he’d had worse. But while he looked significantly less like hammered shit than he felt, that wasn’t saying much. He probably owed that to Hannibal’s care more than anything.

Hannibal, who must have been near death himself but pushed his pain aside to tend to Will. To rescue him, care for him. He had thoughtfully, thoroughly scrubbed the gore from Will’s skin, and even Will’s hair still smelled like shampoo beneath the smell of night sweat, curling over his forehead in delicate whorls. He looked naked and pink and new, but he wasn’t new, was he? He was littered with stories and scars from an old life, plus fresh injuries from a new one.

Will examined his hands. There wasn’t a single trace of blood beneath his fingernails. In fact, his hands were totally bare, his wedding ring gone. Of course. As far as Hannibal was concerned, when Will met Molly, he was already married.

Was it even worth his anger? Will thought of Hannibal’s hands on his body, undressing and bathing him, writing off Molly and Walt like he owned him, like Will was _his_. He tried to summon an appropriate amount of outrage, but it didn’t come. Instead he was flooded with guilt. For all the times Hannibal had manipulated or tried to kill him, their relationship was remarkably one-sided. After all, Hannibal wasn’t the one who’d walked away. He remained faithful, pulled Will from the ocean after yet another of Will’s betrayals.

If this was, in fact, the universe’s way of giving them another chance, Will wasn’t too dense to get the message. It was obvious a tide had turned, and he knew better than to fight against certain currents. Hannibal, with the pull he exerted, was as relentless and inexorable as the moon. But if Will were to ask, Hannibal would say he was the ocean.

On the counter sat several bottles of pills, a mix of antibiotics, tranquilizers, and painkillers. None of them were expired, and none of the prescriptions belonged to Hannibal. The bottom of Will’s stomach dropped when he saw the name: _Keiko Sujimoto_. Clearly an alias but still glaringly unsubtle. Chiyoh. Had to be. It made sense insofar as any of Hannibal’s machinations made sense. There was still running water and electricity, and hardly any dust had covered the surfaces in the house when they arrived. Maybe he’d ask Hannibal about it later, and maybe he wouldn’t. There was a strong likelihood the answer would only give him a headache.

Shaking his head, he ignored the tranquilizers, took one of the antibiotics and two painkillers, then swallowed them dry. He tucked the bottles inside his sling to bring back to the bedroom. His aches and pains had returned full force while he slept, so Hannibal must not be much better, however effectively he managed to care for them while Will was out of it. At this precise moment in time, Will had no desire to watch him suffer, and he was well enough to take it from here for now.

A further search through the cupboards produced a silk kimono, somewhat musty but no less beautiful for that, a dark sky blue embroidered with white-tipped pink, peach, and lavender-coloured peonies, even a bird of paradise. At first it seemed it could be Chiyoh’s, but it was sized for someone shorter. Will smiled sadly. It was precisely the kind of frippery Hannibal would have bestowed upon Abigail, for no other reason than to see her expression of delight. He pictured the two of them thick as thieves in their cliffside hideaway, and the image was equally comforting and sad. Will pushed it out of his mind as he got one arm into the sleeve and draped the other side over his shoulder where the sling was in the way. It’d do.

In the kitchen Will snooped around for something resembling food--it was indicative of Hannibal’s physical condition that he hadn’t attempted to feed himself or Will since dragging them back to the house. Assuming there was anything to feed them with. Three years was a long damn time for a house to sit unused. Who knew when Chiyoh was last here and if her attention extended to Hannibal’s grocery shopping.

His immediate search resulted overwhelmingly in starch: crackers, pasta, and an unopened box of arborio rice. But the pantry wasn’t empty as he’d feared, far from it. Further digging uncovered dried truffles and a few tupperware containers of frozen homemade chicken stock-- _hopefully_ chicken stock--next to Ziplocs of hand-prepared frozen vegetables. He also found a few cans of sweetened condensed milk and a sealed tin of espresso that would come in handy if Will could figure out the machine one-handed.

Also in the pantry were fruit preserves and other canned goods that would tide them over for a little while, although they were a very Hannibal-esque assortment of stuffed olives, piquillo peppers, and sardines. And wine, naturally. Plenty of that. With any luck, it hadn’t turned.

They were meagre offerings, but Will’s stomach gurgled hungrily. Neither of them would be rushing out for a food run anytime soon.

After a lengthy struggle, Will returned to the bedroom carrying two spoons and a bowl of maybe-chicken soup he’d scrounged together using the stock, frozen vegetables, and pasta. It tasted pretty stale on account of how long the ingredients had languished on a shelf, but it was edible, and steam curled pleasantly into the air where he deposited the soup on the nightstand.

Hannibal was still sacked out asleep. A quiet voyeuristic thrill went through Will as he turned to study him on the bed, followed by a pang of a different kind at the sight of him sprawled on his back, hair fanned over his forehead, cheekbones stark as blades. The image was almost shockingly sensual. Will could be returning to a lover he’d left warming the sheets. Hannibal’s hand stretched towards Will’s side of the bed like he’d reached for him in his absence, and the covers had shifted down to reveal the greying thick hair on his chest and torso, pale, smooth skin interrupted by the bandage around his middle. Despite his slightly open mouth as he breathed soft and deep, in sleep Hannibal’s aristocratic features looked, impossibly, even more distinguished. Will traced with his eyes what he had never let himself touch with his hands.

It was safer to pretend the display of Hannibal’s vulnerable humanity was what gave him pause, but then, Will had always excelled at convincing himself his interest in Hannibal was only intellectual.

 _Neither God nor the devil_ , Will thought wistfully. _Just a man_. One whom was Will’s, and Will’s alone, to protect or destroy as he saw fit. He saw now that was Hannibal’s gift all along, but where he wasn’t ready before, it was something he craved down to the marrow of his bones. One might even say he ached for it.

Shaking off that train of thought, Will went back for a glass of water. He could put off further examinations of his psyche until after they’d eaten and Hannibal was in no danger of dropping dead of sepsis. Will was prepared to force-feed pills down his throat until they decided a way forward. Until he could determine if there was, in fact, a “we.” Or a way forward, for that matter.

“Hannibal,” he said quietly, setting the water down. He half knelt on the bed so he could gently shake him awake. He must have looked ridiculous in an embroidered kimono, his bandages, and a sling, but there was a fifty-fifty chance Hannibal would notice or care.

With a few more nudges, Hannibal finally stirred into groggy consciousness, peering blearily at Will until recognition dawned. He attempted to sit up with a grunt of pain.

Will said, “Easy, easy,” and moved to help, hand cupped around Hannibal’s elbow until they got him mostly vertical, settled against the headboard in such a way that wouldn’t tug his injuries unpleasantly. Hannibal grimaced as he adjusted himself. It must be bad for him to let Will see weakness like this, or perhaps the last of the barriers between them had finally been stripped away. Will let out a breath and twitched the covers into place over Hannibal’s lap, just in case the latter was merely some bizarre fit of wishful thinking on his part.

“You should probably take a few more of these,” he said, retrieving the pill bottles from inside his sling. Having figured out the trick to getting them open mostly one-handed, he shook a couple of each into Hannibal’s palm and reached for the water. “I brought you some soup too, if you’re up to it. I doubt you’ve eaten.”

“A most considerate nursemaid,” Hannibal murmured, though he accepted the pills and the water without further comment. Not that he had to. Hannibal could convey bitchiness in a single word like no one else Will had met. Except maybe Bedelia.

He snorted. “Yeah, well. Wouldn’t be the first time you patched me up after trying to kill me. Or before trying to kill me.” It was odd to be trading barbs when Will’s head and heart felt so full, so tender, but surely Hannibal was used to it by now. “It must be strange being on the other end for once.”

“Of trying to kill me? Surely not.”

“I mean having someone look after you.”

The look Hannibal shot him was unreadable. “There’s nothing strange about being cared for when it’s done out of love, and by one whom you love,” he said. “But when done out of guilt, it’s another matter entirely.”

That momentarily shut Will up. “Can’t it be both?” he eventually managed.

Hannibal acknowledged that with a little hum, and Will attempted to get them on safer territory by retrieving the soup. Safer for him, anyway.

A little moue of displeasure suggested what Hannibal’s overdeveloped palate made of Will’s efforts, but no criticism was forthcoming. A swell of unexpected fondness made Will’s chest clench. Out of a misplaced sense of obligation, he took up the other spoon and settled himself back against the headboard next to Hannibal, their arms pressed together lightly. He ate slowly, trying to keep the soup on the uninjured side of his mouth, and let his mind go blank. They were silent but for the clinking of spoons against the bowl and the occasional quiet, watery slurp.

“Do you regret that I lived, Will?” Hannibal asked after some time. He sounded very reasonable, but Will could hear the tension in his voice. “Do you regret that _you_ did?”

Will paused to consider his response, though unnecessarily. “Not in the way you’re thinking,” he said at last and stretched out the fingers of his right hand, remembering them anointed with blood. “Believe what you will, but I wasn’t… insincere. You let me see you, see us, and it was beautiful. _Is_ beautiful. But love isn’t enough to erase the guilt of knowing how many people might die at your hands, Hannibal. Ours, if I let it. Just like guilt isn’t enough to erase the knowledge of what we could have together.” He hesitated, then admitted, “I wasn’t sure I could live a life where I never got to taste that with you again. To never again look at your face and experience joy.”

Almost too minute to catch, there was a subtle softening of Hannibal’s expression as he asked, “If guilt is the last remaining stumbling block in your path, why not kill yourself and be absolved of all responsibility forever?”

Will shrugged. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t given it plenty of thought, but he knew suicide wouldn’t have stuck. Hannibal would have found some other way to save him, bring him back to life. Since they first laid eyes upon each other, throwing them off that cliff was the first decision of Will’s not mired in utter naïvety. And even then he might have considered how strong a swimmer Hannibal was, how capable of bearing Will’s weight like he had so many times before. Maybe on some level he had known, but that bit of honesty brought him up short. He couldn’t go there yet.

He forced himself to look up and meet Hannibal’s eyes and found nothing there but mild curiosity. He said, “Because then you’d be alone, and in the end, I didn’t want to hurt you that way. Or maybe I wished it on myself even less.” Between them two, his admission of selfishness, of weakness and codependency, came easy as a whisper in the night. “Can’t live with you, can’t live without you,” he said, to Bedelia conceding the point.

However, it couldn’t truly be said Will had ever tried to live with Hannibal, free of traps and ulterior motives from either side. Free of anyone else pulling the strings. In the light of a new morning, it seemed almost ludicrously obvious what the missing puzzle piece was, the key, perhaps, to finding the so-called sweet and easy peace that had eluded them both for so long.

“It seemed… cleaner this way,” he mused. “And not completely lacking in poetry. I thought you would appreciate that, if nothing else.”

Hannibal’s smirk was not unkind, the laughter in his eyes unmocking, but only just. “And thus love makes fools of us all. What will you do now that your clean break has proven unsuccessful?”

Will breathed out slowly. After everything it would be impolite to deny Hannibal an answer.

Setting the spoon aside, he slid his fingers along Hannibal’s wrist, grazing his old scars, and settled their hands together, palm to palm. Their eyes met, Hannibal one of the only people with whom Will had ever truly felt comfortable doing so, knowing he saw and was seen. Loved and was loved.

“I left my fate up to chance,” he said. “And chance spoke.” His voice betrayed him, going jagged. “I lied before, at the hospital. It was good to see you, Hannibal.”

A smile then, and Will felt Hannibal tighten his fingers around his own. Beneath them the cliff continued to erode, but Will couldn’t find it in him to care.

 

+

 

Afterward Will fell into a light sleep, more restful than before, lulled under by the soft buffer of painkillers and a remarkable emptiness in his mind, the comforting weight of Hannibal beside him as he tugged them both down to the mattress. He was warm and solid, arm curled possessively around Will’s middle like an anchor while Will drifted. Such proximity with another man was new and strange but, perhaps strangest of all, not unwelcome. Not with Hannibal. Not here and not now. In their closeness his thoughts quieted and went still.

Will dreamed of nothing for the first time he could remember. No night sweats, no terrors, no scream bubbling in his throat as he swam toward wakefulness. Faced with a darkened bedroom, an empty bed, and the smell of food drifting from the kitchen, Will allowed himself a moment to bask in the comfort of a soft mattress and room enough to stretch his limbs, arching his back as much as his injuries allowed. Outside the window the Atlantic continued its endless, perilous churn.

It would seem Hannibal was feeling improved, for upon emerging from bed, Will saw some clothing had been left for him upon a chair. Luxuriously soft lounge pants and a blue cashmere sweater--naturally. He dressed himself in the bottoms, though he couldn’t pull the shirt over his injured arm and shoulder without assistance. The kimono, he noticed, was gone.

Belatedly he spotted a phone on the nightstand. Considered it. No matter the events that had recently transpired, it wasn’t possible to simply consign Molly and Walter to the past. They weren’t far from his mind even now, but Will didn’t reach for the phone, not even with a twitch of fingers. He couldn’t. Wouldn’t.

By necessity and where the world was concerned, Will Graham was dead. That outcome was final, and one he couldn’t change with any amount of willpower. And yet if things were different, if he were the only one to survive the fall, he still couldn’t return to Molly the man she married. True to his warning, he was too changed. Perhaps he’d known even then he was leaving home for good, returning to where he belonged. You could burn a tree or rip its roots free of the earth, but it was impossible to withdraw the first new shoots of spring back into the ground. And Will found he had grown and flowered quite overnight under nothing more than the warmth of Hannibal’s love.

Molly wouldn’t recognize him now, even if he wanted her to see him. He wasn’t her sweet man anymore, if he ever was. Will never thought of himself as sweet, though it was nice to pretend while he made himself forget, instead, what it was like to be Hannibal’s clever boy.

Predictably Hannibal was at the stove when Will padded into the kitchen, sweater clutched in one fist. Hearing or otherwise sensing his presence, the smile Hannibal shot him over his shoulder was tired but warm. Inviting.

Will returned it as he came up behind him. For a moment he simply stared at Hannibal’s back, hesitating, wanting to reach out but unsure how. He thought about how much he disliked being touched but how simple it’d been to embrace Hannibal on that cliffside. Natural as breathing. In daylight Will felt foreign and awkward by comparison, like he was wearing a too-small suit. And yet. Something beneath his skin itched and paced at the thought of being separated from Hannibal again, and it was this, that phantom feeling of loss, that compelled him to step forward and rest his cheek, tentatively, against Hannibal’s shoulder blade. Didn’t even bother to check what Hannibal was cooking because, whatever it was, Will knew it would satisfy.

Immediately Hannibal relaxed into him, and Will knew he’d chosen right. “Did you sleep well?” Hannibal asked, voice pitched low and easy. He sounded remarkably cheerful for someone who’d been shot, beaten, and tumbled off a cliff, only to swim both himself and his would-be murderer back to shore. “When I left you seemed quite comfortable.”

“Yes, thank you,” Will answered, voice muffled into Hannibal’s shirt. Fighting a yawn, he skirted the fingers of his good hand around Hannibal’s side to brush against his bandaged stomach. “You seem to be feeling better too.” _More yourself_ , he didn’t say because, no matter the many versions of Hannibal he’d seen, they were all real, all part of the package. In that Hannibal had never lied to him.

“I found sleep to be quite restorative as well. It’s remarkable how a peaceful mind can contribute to the body’s ability to heal itself.”

At that Will snorted. Leave it to Hannibal to find a fancy way of dressing up good drugs and a nap. “I wouldn’t recommend getting shot again just so you can marvel at the miracle of human physiology.”

He almost felt Hannibal’s smile. “Remarkably shrewd advice.”

Whatever he was preparing seemed to involve a lot of stirring, and Will allowed himself to melt against him briefly, moving as Hannibal moved. It was oddly relaxing to observe dinner preparation this way, smell and sensation and sound over sight or taste. Beneath it all he could hear the steady reassuring thump of Hannibal’s heartbeat.

He remained that way until he felt Hannibal shift, turning. A gentle brush of fingers beneath his chin prompted him to open his eyes. Hannibal was holding out a spoonful for him to sample. Glancing at it, Will recognized the arborio rice he’d unearthed earlier, transformed into a flawless risotto that tasted barely stale. In actual fact, it was probably better than anything he could have made with the freshest ingredients.

“Mm,” he hummed, accepting the taste. Instinctively his eyes fluttered shut as the rich, earthy flavour of mushrooms rushed over his tongue. “Only you could create a gourmet meal out of fusty rice and dried fungi.”

“I do so appreciate your ability to reduce an elegant dish to its most banal components,” Hannibal answered. There was a clatter of metal as he set the spoon down on the counter, then replaced the pot lid and turned off the stove. His hands on Will’s shoulders prompted him to open his eyes again. “We have twenty minutes for the risotto to sit before it will be perfectly _al dente_ ,” Hannibal informed him. “I’d like to check your injuries while we wait.”

“You’re injured too,” Will shot back. Despite his petulance he allowed himself to be led toward where the beam of the kitchen light was strongest. Hannibal washed his hands at the sink and then opened a first-aid kid that was on the counter.

“Dolarhyde’s bullet missed any major blood vessels and didn’t perforate my bowels,” he said as he pulled supplies from the kit, then snapped on a pair of gloves. “A soft-tissue injury only. Admittedly painful but less damaging than I initially anticipated. The fall, in fact, might have proved more disastrous. But I would be grateful if you would assist me in changing my dressings later.”

Will’s bland look went ignored while Hannibal gently turned his face to the side, peeled back the gauze, and scrutinized the stitched-up gash on his cheek before he reached down to gently unwind the bandages from around Will’s chest and shoulder where they’d been protecting the other stab wound.

“I’m satisfied with how the healing has progressed so far,” Hannibal murmured and leaned forward take a gentle whiff. Checking for infection. He picked up a cotton swab and a bottle of antiseptic and gently began cleaning the wounds. While he worked, he said, “It’s early yet, but I see no sign of inflammation or excess discharge, and optimistically I believe scarring will be minimal.” He gave Will a tiny smile and dropped his gaze to his mouth before returning it to meet Will’s eyes. “For that I’m glad; had the Dragon disfigured such a lovely face, I should have been furious to be denied the opportunity to kill him a second time.”

The look Will gave him was droll. “ _You_ had no problem disfiguring my face,” he pointed out and lifted his eyes to indicate the scar that slashed across his forehead.

“Under the circumstances I expected it not to matter in the long run,” Hannibal replied. “But for what it’s worth, not a day has gone by that I haven’t regretted what almost became of you. I think I should have been quite bereft by your loss.”

“That makes two of us,” Will deadpanned, but he offered a quirk of his lips to show Hannibal was forgiven.

Hannibal held his gaze a moment, looking like he wanted to say more, but then he replaced the bandages and gestured at Will’s bare chest. “I apologize for doing away with your clothing,” he said. “It was necessary, and at the time I was not in a position to go searching for something with which to preserve your dignity.”

Will snorted. “My dignity,” he repeated. He wet his lips. “You and I both know it’s not the first time you’ve seen me naked without me knowing. Literally or metaphorically.”

“That affords me no liberties.”

They were quiet while Hannibal rebandaged his chest, though he left the gauze off his face to let it air out. When they were done, Hannibal indicated Will’s immobilized arm with a slight nod.

“Your shoulder is dislocated,” he said. “I was unable to set it in my prior condition, but we will need to do so soon before it worsens. I’m not pleased with how long we’ve left it already, but whether you prefer before dinner or after is entirely your choice. A few minutes more are unlikely to make a difference at such an advanced stage.”

Will winced. “Better to get it over with,” he muttered. “I’m sick of this sling.”

“Very well. Come.”

Typical of a doctor, there were ice packs in the freezer, and Hannibal fetched one for Will to apply to his shoulder once it was reset before he led them into the living room. A fire roared in the hearth to counteract the crisp draft that whistled through the window Dolarhyde had shot out. If they planned to stay here much longer, Will would see about digging out a tarp and a staple gun from somewhere so he could fix that. Maybe in the morning when he felt less like crap.

Will tossed aside the sweater and went to lie on the sofa, his arm and shoulder hanging over the edge; he’d been through this song and dance enough times and knew the drill. Hannibal knelt beside him and removed the sling, shushing Will through his hiss of discomfort as his shoulder rotated painfully. Then he extended his arm out to the side until it became unbearable, and Will grunted a warning.

He laced their fingers together as Hannibal flattened his other hand against the displaced bulge of the joint. Not pulling yet, just warming up to it, though Will instinctively shifted his weight in the opposite direction for extra resistance. With Hannibal curved over him at such an intimately close distance, their eyes met and held. Will felt his breath puff out of him in sharp gusts as Hannibal began to apply traction, bracing his body against Will’s while simultaneously shoving the ball joint back into place with his other hand in a firm, swift motion.

An aborted shout escaped Will at the violence of the action, and he turned his head to bury his face against Hannibal’s fingers as he breathed through the pain. He whimpered embarrassingly. The relief, however, was near instantaneous.

“It’s done,” Hannibal said unnecessarily, but Will forgave the pointless reassurance when Hannibal gathered him close and pressed a warm kiss into his hair. Will shivered at the unexpected display of affection, absurdly, and let himself be held.

“I’m beginning to think it’s impossible for us to share an embrace without one of us hurting the other,” he quipped, but it received an inquiring noise from Hannibal rather than a laugh.

He drew back slightly to look at Will, searching his face from such a close distance that Will wondered if he could see anything at all. What, in fact, he was looking for. He bit his lip to stop himself from making another inelegant remark, and then Hannibal softly asked, “Is that what you would like?”

The question made Will start but really oughtn’t have. He pulled away so he could meet Hannibal’s eyes and found them void of judgement or expectation as usual. For an impatient second, he was annoyed. For someone capable of such violence, Hannibal could be so… so goddamn _genteel_. Will often wished he wouldn’t be.

“What if I said yes?”

Hannibal cocked his head, expression bright and shrewd as ever. Shuttered, certainly, to one who knew him not half as well, but Will could see the flicker of interest in those dark-whiskey eyes. “Are you saying yes, Will?”

Will snorted a laugh. You could take the man out of the psychiatrist but not the psychiatrist out of the man. Well, damned if two couldn’t play that game. Will sat up with some difficulty and leaned in to close the distance between them, parting his legs for Hannibal’s body when he felt those large hands come to rest upon his knees. It brought to mind all the other times Hannibal had touched him with such casual possessiveness, a warm palm against his shoulder or wrist or face. His breath hitched.

“How would it make you feel if I did?” he asked, wickedly seizing upon the chance to turn the tables on his former therapist. “Or if I… didn’t?”

“There are as many forms of love as there are stars in the sky,” Hannibal answered patiently, playing along. Will loved that about him, how the mask of indifference came so easily when, really, to Hannibal, the game was everything. Only Will knew which way Hannibal wanted this to go. Or did he merely hope so? Hannibal stroked the inside of his knee with his thumb as he said, “You gave yourself to me the other night on the cliff; I saw it in your eyes. If that is as far as things ever progress between us, I will be content.”

“You know I’m not gay.”

A slight flattening of his lips was the only sign Hannibal gave that he was fighting a smile. “Nor are you that naïve, Will.”

The knowing amusement in his voice was almost too much to take, and Will caved a little under the delicious thrill of finding himself both pursued and pursuer. “Do I appeal to more than your mind, Hannibal?” he whispered.

Hannibal’s hands on his legs crept higher as he leaned in more, bodies slowly clicking into alignment until Will’s knees bracketed Hannibal’s torso, the two of them nearly groin to stomach. Close enough that Hannibal could reach out and lay his hand along the scar bisecting Will’s belly, if he so chose. Part of Will wanted him to.

“I cherish your imagination most of all, Will, but there is no aspect of your person I do not find beautiful. Ever since I first laid eyes on you, I thought you were exquisite.” Hannibal paused as if to let that sink in, and Will held his breath as he waited for Hannibal to continue. “If you let me, I would possess all of you and be possessed by you in return. But I am prepared to accept whatever affection you permit between us. Or lack thereof.”

For a moment Will could only stare at him, mouth gone dry and throat clicking around a swallow in the silence. A flush had risen to his cheeks, spreading down his neck to his chest, and belatedly he realized Hannibal’s words, the low timbre of his voice and the images he evoked, were turning him on. Rousing him one cell at a time with a rush of exhilarating power not terribly unlike what he felt gutting Dolarhyde from hip to hip.

The brush of Hannibal’s lips against his jaw and the barest scrape of teeth made Will shudder so hard it was nearly a flinch, made him lower his chin so their mouths were within kissing distance. He could feel his exhalations wavering unevenly between them in counterpoint to Hannibal’s much steadier breaths.

“I believe it’s time for dinner,” Hannibal murmured. “If we tarry, the risotto will be quite inedible.”

His words registered with a start. Will glared at first but forced himself to nod. Hannibal had won this round. Annoyed but unsurprised, he found the sweater he’d discarded earlier and thrust it between them. He was maybe a little rougher than necessary. “Help me with this first.”

Despite Will’s rudeness, Hannibal obliged and tugged the sweater up Will’s arms, mindful of his shoulder and chest, then over his head. Will sighed at its softness, the scent of Hannibal he imagined lingered in its fibres. The rush of adrenaline and endorphins from resetting his shoulder resulted in a stumble with the first step he took, but Hannibal was there to guide him. With Hannibal’s hand warm against his lower back, they returned to the kitchen, where it’d be warmer to eat than at the dining room table, which was more exposed to the elements through the shattered window.

Despite the kitchen’s limitations, Hannibal managed to make the risotto look elaborate and elegant, garnishing it with a flourish of dried herbs. There was a pitcher of ice water in place of wine in deference to the painkillers they were both on, and candles, of course. Hannibal didn’t do anything by half.

“How much longer do you think it’s safe to stay here?” Will asked as they sat down, side by side rather than across the table from one another. “The police will be searching everywhere, and between us and Dolarhyde, there are three murderers, one deceased, and two stolen cop cars on this property. To say nothing of anything you might have in the freezer downstairs.” Dolarhyde’s body still lay brutalized on the outside sitting area, spread out in a pool of his blood like a small ocean. The early spring weather was cool enough that he hadn't yet started to reek, but it was a matter of time. 

Hannibal chewed thoughtfully, then said, “I can only assume Francis disabled the tracking device on his vehicle, as did we. Else we would have had Uncle Jack’s company long before now, before even the Dragon had an opportunity to ambush us.”

“Forgive me if I’m hesitant to leave my fate up to another man’s foresight. Or his ability to manipulate police technology,” Will muttered. “Dolarhyde wasn’t exactly… stable.”

Hannibal humoured Will’s bitchiness with a fond smile. “You mustn’t doubt him so,” he said. “One could hardly ask for a more meticulous individual than our Dragon. Nothing would have been left up to chance, of that you can be certain. And without you divining the path forward, I doubt our friends at the FBI will be so quick to unearth clues as to our whereabouts.”

Will conceded the point with a slight incline of his head but looked down to swirl the water in his glass as though it were a fine vintage. “Alright, fine. But you can hardly expect to stay here forever. Lovely though the house may be, I find the view has left something of a bad taste in my mouth.” He arched an eyebrow at Hannibal’s wry look. “And before you can remind me it’s partly my own doing, yes, I’m aware of the irony.”

For a few moments, Hannibal continued to eat and contemplate the dilemma. Then: “It would be simple enough to move on to the next empty house we can find, and the one after that, but so long as we remain in America, our future will never be secure. Whether to live or to escape by conventional means, even with new identities, we are both too recognizable for comfort.”

“You have falsified documents for us?” Hannibal just sipped his water and looked at Will from behind his glass without answering, and Will rolled his eyes. “Of course you do. I’m surprised you didn’t have Chiyoh outfit you with a private plane.”

“There are limitations to even what she will do for me.”

“Shocking.”

Hannibal gave him that expressionless look that meant he was unimpressed, bordering on indignant. “Does it please you to hear me admit I am at something of a loss as to our next steps?”

“Yes. Exceedingly. But I’m not. At a loss, I mean.” This made Hannibal’s eyebrows lift sharply, and Will offered a half shrug. He tried not to sound smug, but it was good to be the one with a solution for once, rather than feeling he was being tugged along in one psychopath’s wake after another. “When you were in Florence with Bedelia, I fixed myself up a boat and sailed after you. It’s not elegant, nor was it particularly easy, but I could do it again. Hell, we’ll go to South America, if you’re sick of Europe. Africa, maybe, or the Far East. But as far as unimpeded travel goes, it’s a pretty short list that pretty much begins and ends with taking a boat. No one breathing down our necks, no one to stop us. We can take as little or as much time to reach a destination as we want.”

Hannibal was silent, watching him. Then: “It would seem you have all the answers.”

Will smiled and was surprised to realize he felt real joy in the expression. It only stung a little as his lips and cheeks stretched wide enough to show teeth. “I’ve told you before, Hannibal. We make a good team.”

Fleetingly there was a brush of Hannibal’s fingers against his own. “Indeed we do, Will.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will and Hannibal explore a new facet of their relationship. If Will expected negotiations to be easy, he shouldn't have.

There was a car on Hannibal’s property--registered under a different name, of course. Will decided he’d drive to the nearest town for supplies the next day after he finished putting a tarp over the broken living room window. It could be that being in less pain made him bold--or stupid--but they needed more than risotto and fancy peppers to live on, and Will was tired of being a slave to his injuries. He’d done more with worse, and not only didn’t he doubt Hannibal was underrepresenting the extent of his GSW to placate him, his face was one of the most notorious in the world. He wouldn’t be popping out for caviar and black truffles anytime soon, which left Will to provide for them until they could find a more permanent safety. The thought wasn’t unappealing. Hannibal had gotten them this far; Will could do the rest. It was, after all, a partnership. An equalship. Curiously he found he wanted to look after Hannibal the way Hannibal, in his way, looked after him. Or maybe Will’d just been in the family way too long.

He wasn’t going anywhere as is, though. He may not be wanted for murder _yet_ , but there was no doubt Jack had by now figured out Hannibal’s escape was the plan all along. It didn’t help, either, that Freddie Lounds had so recently splashed Will’s likeness over the news in conjunction with the Tooth Fairy killings.

There was a simple enough way to remedy that, though Will didn’t relish it.

Hannibal, propped against the headboard, glanced up from the book he was reading as Will reentered the bedroom after an awkward and unsatisfying attempt to wash up at the sink. He would have killed for a proper shower, but it wasn’t really an option with half the total surface area of his body wrapped in bandages or stitched up.

Hannibal was dressed for sleep in a pair of silk pyjama bottoms and no shirt, just the fresh bandage round his middle. The white gauze was stark beneath the salt-and-pepper mat of his chest hair; Will had helped change Hannibal’s dressings after dinner. All that was missing was a pair of reading glasses to complete the Hot Dad fantasy Will had never had. He rubbed the back of his neck and didn’t know whether to laugh at the image or swallow at the unexpected pang of want in his belly. Would Hannibal be pleased or merely entertained to learn this was one more way he’d changed Will?

For his part, Hannibal’s face underwent quite a comical series of reactions before settling on amused interest, eyes bright. He closed the book and placed it on the nightstand, then folded his hands in his lap.

Will raised his eyebrows, and a self-conscious smirk twisted his mouth as he ran a hand across the smoothness of his jaw and upper lip. The urge to cover himself and avert his gaze was near unbearable. He didn’t know what the hell he expected, but this was… intense. Hannibal’s eyes on him made Will blisteringly aware of himself in a way he hadn’t experienced before. Blood, guts, marrow on display. He could hide nothing and instead forced himself to lean against the doorjamb so Hannibal could look his fill. It wasn’t a polite stare, but then, Will didn’t want it to be. He wanted adoration at its most brutal and ravenous, for Hannibal to feast upon him as he would a beautifully presented meal. To find nourishment at the sight of him.

But Will felt more confused than beautiful, not that he’d never been shy of his body, precisely. It was functional and strong, solid enough to keep him alive in his line of work, or he supposed his former line of work. Now it was strong enough to keep up with Hannibal. Women sometimes found him attractive if they managed to look past his twitchiness and lack of social skills, and until Molly, he did okay for himself with the odd brief affair that didn’t require him to humour anyone--or be humoured--longer than a night.

Still, he was conscious of how battered and scarred he was, tragedies written across his body like a living elegy. How… middle-aged. Going barefaced took years off his face, and damn it, Will had earned those years. A part of him wanted to see proof of everything he’d endured when he looked in the mirror. He didn’t want to look pretty or boyish because that wasn’t him. Never was. When he started officer training in Louisiana, he put up with a few weeks of insults to his manhood or sexuality or both--or worse, closeted classmates propositioning him in the locker room--before he caved and grew a beard. The last time he’d seen himself clean-shaven was in his graduation photo from the police academy.

The wound in his cheek was further motivation to hide his face, and yet beneath Hannibal’s gaze, he felt lithesome and new, a desirable young man rather than one who was tired and the wrong side of forty. He belonged to Hannibal mind and body and spirit, but Hannibal was also Will’s to delight as he saw fit. He could see from Hannibal’s eyes it did. _He_ did.

“This is quite a surprise,” Hannibal said in a low, appreciative murmur, practically a purr. Will blushed despite himself. He could feel the heat of Hannibal’s stare from across the room. He ducked his head and belatedly realized how submissive looked, but he was too raw and exposed to maintain eye contact or care.

 _There are ways other than violence to influence someone_ , Chiyoh once said, and they were neither of them so naïve as to pretend the promise of sex settled the unanswered questions left between them. Give a little to get a little, and Will was giving Hannibal a taste before he set his terms. As it titillated them both, he saw no harm in it, and he wasn’t relinquishing anything he wouldn’t give freely. That truth was shockingly easy to admit with nothing left to hide behind. As he was already getting hard under Hannibal’s gaze, cock growing heavy between his legs, any denials he might have made would rang shockingly hollow.

“To what do I owe this unforeseen pleasure?” Hannibal asked as Will approached. He sounded like he was welcoming an unexpected guest on his doorstep and not a naked man to his bed. With each step he took, Will found himself starting to tremble from the sheer foreignness of the situation, yet Hannibal’s keen eyes drew him in until he perched on the edge of the mattress by Hannibal’s hip, smoothing the sheet with one hand. “I don’t often like to question my good fortune, Will, but this is a bounty I never anticipated.”

“You could stop talking about me like I’m some kind of pirate’s booty, for a start,” Will drawled, voice thick.

Hannibal brought up a palm to cup Will’s shaven jaw, trailing his fingers along his cheek and eliciting another shiver. He couldn’t get a perfectly close shave on account of the gash on his cheek, but he could feel Hannibal’s warm fingers against his skin, and that was enough.

“Quite on the contrary,” Hannibal answered. “You’re a treasure made all the more precious by the fact you have chosen to reveal yourself to me, rather than be sought out. It’s quite a remarkable change from before, when you would rarely initiate even casual physical contact.”

“Before was before.” Will shrugged and met Hannibal’s gaze from beneath his lashes. “I’ve been thinking about what you said earlier, about… the kind of affection I want to exist between us. You’ve let me see every part of you. It only seemed right I let you see me too.”

Hannibal continued to stroke his finger along Will’s face, seemingly mesmerized by this new skin. “I fear nothing I’ve shown you is quite so exquisite in comparison. You awe me, Will. Whenever I believe I have seen all there is of you for me to love, I discover yet more.”

Will snorted and dropped his chin to his chest, flattered despite the flowery words. Typical. To be so adored stirred something molten in him, made him suddenly aware of how he held himself. If he turned his head a certain way or lifted a shoulder just so, would he look sexy? Or utterly ridiculous? How could he even ask himself something like that with a straight face? He craved Hannibal’s hunger, but he wasn’t at the point where he could accept his lavish words without trying to deflect.

“I’m not sure whether I’m meant to be a sacrificial lamb or a virgin bride,” he said.

Hannibal cocked his head. “Neither; you are very much the seducer. Funny how often you find yourself in such a role while convincing yourself you are not.”

That was… true enough. All things considered. Will always called himself an excellent fisherman, but Hannibal’s word for it was more honest. It wasn’t Hannibal’s cleverness he wanted to appeal to, though. That already belonged to him. “What does that make you, then?”

“You tell me.” As if sharing a secret, Hannibal leaned in to whispering distance, and his breath was like a caress against Will’s skin. “Is it not I who put myself in your hands with complete trust, even knowing it might lead to my death?” he asked. “I in whom you have awakened feelings altogether new?”

Will swallowed. “This is new for me too. Uncharted territory.”

“Would you like me to show you?”

Will wasn’t so wide-eyed that he didn’t know what was supposed to happen next. Hannibal’s face was very near, and he still had his hand on Will’s cheek. In his mind Will had already followed the thought to its natural conclusion and was anticipating how Hannibal would taste, how he would feel.

Holding Hannibal’s gaze, Will closed the distance between them until their mouths touched, first tentatively, then gaining confidence. His eyes drifted closed. For a man Hannibal’s lips were warm and full and soft, and except for the rasp of stubble against his chin and the possessive way he tilted Will’s head where he pleased, it didn’t feel strange or unfamiliar. Will could be kissing a woman, but he wasn’t. He so very much wasn’t. He opened his eyes again. That was taboo as hell, but he didn’t want to pretend this was anyone but Hannibal. He wanted to remember this moment always, each detail in perfect clarity.

Hannibal was a good kisser. Somehow that was no surprise considering the bastard was good at everything else. He knew when to be soft and when to use teeth, neither too aggressive nor too passive. It felt coy, mischievous. Playful, if a mouth that had known the blood of a hundred victims could be said to be playful.

The thought caused in Will such a bone-deep shudder that he moaned involuntarily, parting his lips to let Hannibal in deeper. His hand, of its own volition, found purchase against Hannibal’s chest so he could steady himself. With all he’d devoured, Hannibal should taste like death, but he didn’t. His tongue, which he stroked tentatively against Will’s bottom lip before pressing inside, bore only the flavour of toothpaste and saliva. Perhaps because he was only human; perhaps because he and Will were so deeply alike they cancelled each other out.

With a gentle nip, Hannibal drew back. The barest suggestion of a smirk lurked in his eyes. “Your thoughts are overloud, Will,” he murmured into the space between them, close enough that Will could taste his breath.

Will stared at him a moment and then remembered to blink. Remembered to breathe. Exhaling noisily, he curled his fingers in Hannibal’s coarse chest hair. Somewhat belligerently he answered, “Do my thoughts suddenly bother you? Not tasty enough, maybe?”

This time Hannibal’s eyes did crinkle at the corners. He looked, as he so often did, equally pleased and exasperated by Will’s churlishness. “You know how your mind fascinates me,” he said patiently. “But at present I’m not the one bothered by the direction of your thoughts.”

He knew; Hannibal always knew. Will swallowed and asked, “Do you always have to make me say it?”

Slowly Hannibal leaned in as if to allow Will time to pull away, and upon finding no revulsion, kissed him again. It was brief, enough that Will chased after Hannibal’s lips for more before he caught himself with a self-conscious huff.

Hannibal smiled, all warmth. “It is not until we give voice to our thoughts that they reveal themselves to be friend or foe. I simply wish for you to know which yours are.”

“Whose foe?” countered Will. “Whose _friend_? Yours or mine?” He let his eyes fall shut as Hannibal played idly with his hair, twining the curls about his fingers until Will was sure they resembled elflocks.

He heard the laughter in Hannibal’s voice. “I know I have your friendship, Will,” he said. The touch traveled down from his hair to Will’s mouth, and he opened for the gentle press of a thumb against his bottom lip. Will sucked the pad of Hannibal’s thumb to provoke a reaction. In himself, in Hannibal, it didn’t matter. Both their breaths hitched like they were one person. “You already tried on the role of foe. It didn’t become you.”

 _Oh, goddamn it,_ thought Will, half in wonder, half in frenzy, and lurched forward to crash their mouths together again. This once Hannibal let him keep his thoughts. Will pressed close until he could feel Hannibal’s chest against his own, warm and firm, and he shoved his hands into Hannibal’s hair for something to grasp at, to pull and dishevel. Gone was the exploratory tentativeness; Will’s blood felt too wild and his skin too small. Hannibal’s confidence in his own appeal had always done something to him, a vicious cycle as enraging as it was attractive, but it was the casual way he professed his ownership that set Will aflame, the time for consideration and detached appreciation long past.

The violence of the kiss made Will’s cheek smart, sutures tugging unpleasantly, but he didn’t care. If anything it only excited him further, for what was his relationship with Hannibal but the perfect amalgam of pleasure and pain?

His body seemed not to agree, past a point. After a while his back started to ache from his position on the bed, torso angled to face Hannibal, and a small, hurt groan escaped as he momentarily broke away to breathe.

Straight away Hannibal guessed the problem. With hands cupped firm around Will’s elbows, he pulled and directed until Will was astride his lap, looking down into Hannibal’s face.

The ugly thought occurred to him that this was a woman’s position; he’d never known it another way. He may have Hannibal underneath him, but it didn’t feel powerful, not like when Molly or Margot or anyone else had him on his back and at their mercy. Hannibal had put him there, and it was vulnerable, exposed. He no longer felt like the seducer, and he flushed deeply in a combination of shame, confusion, guilt, and arousal.

Hannibal noted his pause with a subtle incline of his head, and Will swallowed, only to find his throat dry. “This makes me feel like a girl,” he said. He felt absurd saying it, but might as well put it out there since Hannibal would figure it out in due time. He always did.

“Need I point out you aren’t one?” Hannibal answered without guile. Predictably it took him half a second to deduce the problem--assuming, of course, he didn’t put Will here on purpose to begin with. “What about this position do you feel is inherently feminine?”

“I’d really rather not be psychoanalyzed right now,” Will bit out.

“You lack a frame of reference outside of heteronormative sex roles. It’s understandable you should feel off balance, finding yourself in a position a woman would traditionally be in for you and which perhaps seems submissive for a man.” The way Hannibal said it made it sound both like a diagnosis and an explanation, like it was almost reasonable. But then he ran a hand down Will’s flank, fingers skirting his hip, the curve of his ass, and his voice was in an entirely different register when he said, “For what it’s worth, Will, you do not appear any less masculine than you did five minutes ago. But whether or not you choose to see it as submissive is entirely up to you.”

“I never found it submissive before,” he argued. “I wasn’t the one who took--” He broke off with a noise of frustration, unable to finish.

“What, Will?” Hannibal was watching him very closely. “Is it that you prefer to be dominated, hence the association you make between certain positions and power?”

“I don’t prefer to be anything,” snapped Will, embarrassed. Transparent. He started to slide off Hannibal’s lap but found himself held firm until he made himself elaborate. “Sometimes it’s just nice to let someone else make the decisions. And I’m not exactly known for dating pushovers. Or marrying them.”

Hannibal frowned in displeasure at that but said, “All the more reason to allow yourself a temporary surrender of control.” His expression morphed into one that was cutting, shrewd. Not entirely kind, perhaps the closest thing to the monster anyone, save his victims and Will, had opportunity to see. Will wondered what fresh damage he was about to receive. “A very convenient way to frame your desires--you had no choice. I cannot help but find similarities between how you describe your sexual relationships and the lives you’ve taken.”

Will felt himself go bright red. Refused to touch that with a ten-foot pole. “So you’d be okay with it if I asked you to sit in my lap instead?” he snapped.

What he really meant was _if I asked to fuck you_ , and not only was it presumptuous, but he didn’t think he could handle the mental picture right now, the ensuing sense of empathy that accompanied all his flights of imagination. It was hard enough trying to picture _himself_ in that role. Or rather, all too easy.

Maybe that was the problem. Will had always been a bit of a stubborn bastard when it came to owning up to things Hannibal knew or at least guessed about him. The things Will knew and guessed about himself. Partly he wanted Hannibal to guide him through this alien territory. Every touch was like a new word in a foreign tongue. But the heat that lashed through him when he pictured Hannibal fucking him had nothing to do with a sense of exploration, an affinity for the new. It was putting a name to a coal that’d been burning away in his belly for too long; it was staring over the edge of a cliff and realizing it wasn’t the fall that terrified you, but how badly you wanted to jump.

Fuck Hannibal for always being right.

Hannibal smiled again, and this time it was softer, as though he were congratulating Will on pulling his head out of his own ass. Pragmatic as ever, he said, “I see no use for placing arbitrary restrictions upon my enjoyment of sex, and nor do I wish to make you uncomfortable. For now, at least. Do you truly object, or is it simply one more convention your mind wishes to cling to in a sea of unfamiliarity?”

Will snorted but didn’t deny it. “How awfully open-minded of you.”

When Hannibal leaned in to brush his lips against Will’s throat, edging up to his ear, where he could deeply inhale the scent of him, Will shivered and found it altogether less creepy than he once might have. He ended up clutching at Hannibal’s shoulders as though he might better ride out the full-body shudder that way, Hannibal’s words a pleasant buzz through the thin skin over his jugular.

“In my experience,” Hannibal murmured, “open-mindedness often yields the most pleasurable results.”

Not that his argument wasn’t compelling, but Will was considerably more distracted by Hannibal’s light touches upon his skin, ghosting up and down his sides, his arms. The way he opened his mouth wider so Will could feel the hot slick of his tongue or how he coquettishly nipped at Will’s earlobe. It made him far less inclined to find fault in anything Hannibal said, which was almost as novel as being in bed with him. Probably because the speed with which Will got an erection was incredibly persuasive. He didn’t think he’d gotten hard so fast since he was a teenager, since the first time he let a girl take him to bed. The irony wasn’t lost on him.

“Keep touching me like that, and you won’t have to convince anyone,” he managed breathlessly.

“Good,” Hannibal said, crisply sincere as he pulled back to study Will’s face. Will could see the approval in his expression, that particular warmth in his eyes Will often thought while an ocean separated them--then as he was sailing across it, mile after mile giving way to the promise of a glimpse of Hannibal’s smile. Then for three years it’d been too dangerous to think of him at all, and that was a loss Will felt very keenly now.

Hannibal relaxed his hands where they were spread across the back of Will’s ribcage, his shoulder blades, and Will leaned into them, giving them enough room to stare at each other unabashedly. His eyes wanted to drink in the broadness of Hannibal’s shoulders and chest until he was beyond speech, until all he could think of was putting his mouth on his body.

Instead Will inhaled sharply at the hand Hannibal settled upon his sternum. In no hurry, Hannibal let the heat of his palm bleed into Will’s skin before he began to slide it slowly down, fingertips grazing Will’s sparse chest hair, a nipple. He stared at Will with unabashed hunger. By the time he brought his hand to rest against the shallow pan of Will’s belly, fingers splayed possessively, Will was breathing hard through his mouth and trembling with the effort of not thrusting his cock against Hannibal’s stomach. His body hair would be so gorgeously rough against him, quick to grow sticky and wet as they fucked. He wanted to leave Hannibal soaked, _marked_. He bet he’d look just as good covered in come as he did blood. Will felt his face get even hotter at the thought.

“You need... little to persuade you,” Hannibal observed with a teasing note in his voice, but Will didn’t miss how he had to pause in between words to wet his lips. Hannibal’s pupils, as their eyes met, were very large, black swallowing up the brown irises. “As has ever been the case. So unshakable at first, then ready to crumble at the slightest touch. My lovely Will, capricious as a young god.”

To drive his point home, Hannibal repeated the motion of his hand, the leisurely path from chest downward, though this time he dragged the backs of his fingers along the centre of Will’s torso, between his pectoral muscles to his navel. Bisecting the smile he’d given him. It was so tortuously slow and so near where Will wanted it that his laugh came out sounding more like a groan. Even his cock tried to wave closer to Hannibal’s hand by giving a sudden jerk.

“It makes a difference when the touch feels like _that_ ,” he said.

“Or perhaps it is merely me to whom you are so susceptible,” countered Hannibal smugly.

The flutters of anticipation shattered into pleasure when Hannibal finally curled his fingers around Will’s cock, no warning given. Will spasmed like he’d been shot but gasped, “I thought you were gonna talk me to death first.” Hannibal’s answer was a laugh that sounded more like a growl.

A quick jerk was nothing better than Will could do himself, and Hannibal hadn’t even stroked him yet. But he already felt his body tingling and starting to detach from reality like he was about to come. It was all he could think about. Involuntarily he pictured what he must look like to Hannibal, the satisfaction it brought him to reduce Will to this inchoate state so easily, and it made him shudder so hard he nearly collapsed into Hannibal’s body.

He allowed himself to tip his forehead against Hannibal’s shoulder, panting wet breaths against his throat as Hannibal gave him a long, slow tug, and Will arched into it. Then Hannibal did it again, and Will wanted to melt into a puddle like an expired candle. His whole body felt like it was ready to give up the ghost if this continued much longer.

“Fuck,” he ground out, and a particularly cruel twist of Hannibal’s fingers around the head of his cock forced the end of the word out on an embarrassingly high-pitched whine.

“May I confess something to you, Will,” Hannibal asked in a rougher voice than Will expected. In response Will shuddered in anticipation, not all of it good, of what said confession might be.

“What,” he choked out. Hannibal was still stroking him, moving his hand at that maddeningly slow pace, and Will didn’t know what he wanted more: for Hannibal to speed up or stop, speak, or leave him trembling with apprehension forever.

But it seemed Hannibal’s immediate intent was to continue to torture Will’s body. “I have, at times, found myself jealous,” he said quietly, speaking half against Will’s cheek. “Of Margot, of Molly. Other women you may have taken to your bed.That they were fortunate enough to glimpse this part of you while I was left with only the comfort of my imagination, the secret rooms in my memory palace I would sometimes allow myself to visit in captivity.”

The admission pulled an ironic chuckle from Will, the sound at once laboured and sad. Psychopathic jealousy almost killed Margot _and_ Molly--not to mention Walter, by extension. Maybe not by the same men or for the same reasons, but they were lives ruined because of Hannibal. And Will. At the same time, he knew how Hannibal felt. It’d haunted him, _taunted_ him the whole time Hannibal was sleeping with Alana, though he never knew who to be more envious of. He supposed he had his answer now.

“You’ll have to let me know whether the real deal lives up to your expectations,” Will said, revealing none of this. Hannibal probably knew, anyway.  

The look in Hannibal’s eyes as he gazed at Will was unexpectedly serious. “You have already exceeded them,” he said. “How could I be anything but ruined, now, having known true beauty? I will never find its like again, save when I gaze upon my beloved and am seen in return.”

It sounded like a line from something, the kind of overwrought poetry only Hannibal could get away with quoting seriously, but Will knew it wasn’t. It was Hannibal speaking to him directly, words purple but honest. Will couldn’t mock him for saying what was true for them both. And it _was_ true. This was it for him. The interceding years had merely been delaying the inevitable, his acceptance of Hannibal and of… himself. Their love was as much knowing each other as knowing themselves.

He leaned in and pushed their mouths together again, breathing harshly against Hannibal’s lips as he shuddered with need. Despite the spasm of pain it caused, he wrapped his arms around Hannibal’s shoulders so their bodies were locked together, Hannibal’s hand trapped between them. Will moved against him, working his hips to thrust into the circle of Hannibal’s fingers, and he caught himself clenching and unclenching his hands in Hannibal’s hair in the same rhythm.

They kissed until Hannibal too was panting against his mouth; Will could feel his erection, clothed in the silky softness of his pyjama pants, against the sensitive skin behind his balls, and he rode back against it with some kind of undefined deliberate purpose. Was he using Hannibal for himself, or using himself for Hannibal?

Hannibal pulled Will away with his free hand fisted in the back of Will’s hair. The drugged-looking euphoria on his face, lips swollen and eyes half-lidded, caused such an undeniable flare of want in Will’s belly that he trembled, mouth parting on a gasp.

“How unspeakably lovely you are when you chase your own pleasure,” Hannibal rasped, never ceasing the painfully slow pace of his hand. His long, elegant fingers were doing incredible things to Will’s dick, circling and dragging against all the right spots. “When you know what you want and take it.”

The words made Will’s breath hitch, and he rolled his head on his neck languidly to gaze at Hannibal from beneath his eyelashes. “I don’t want to take it for myself,” he murmured, then wet his lips. “I want you to give it to me.”

“You have never relished asking anything of me before,” Hannibal answered. “Always so afraid of the cost. To yourself or anyone else.”

“I already paid the ferryman, and he didn’t accept my coin.” Will nudged his nose, then his mouth, against Hannibal’s cheek, and reached between them to close his hand around Hannibal’s. Around himself. Ushering Will toward his downfall together. “There’s no longer any cost you could ask of me that’s too great, Hannibal. Not anymore. Nor I of you. Isn’t that right?”

Hannibal’s response was another kiss, hungry and just this side of sharp as he dragged his teeth against Will’s lips. As though their joined hands granted him tacit encouragement, Hannibal increased the rhythm of his strokes. It was still deliberate, unhurried, but Will could feel when it changed from a touch designed to tease to one of relief, to give Will what they both longed for. Hannibal’s palm captured and spread the wetness from the head of Will’s cock down the shaft, lubricating the slide of his hand into something that made Will’s eyes roll back in his head. It was messy and perfect, and Will moaned shamelessly, letting Hannibal hear him. That was the real price of Hannibal’s touch: to know it was not merely tolerated but adored, craved. Something Will could finally let himself delight in. He acquiesced all too eagerly when Hannibal slid his other palm down to cup Will’s ass, urging him to rock his hips faster, harder, as though Will were riding him in earnest.

In a sense he was; he could feel the fabric of Hannibal’s pyjamas growing damp, then slick, his cock dragging exquisitely against Will’s hole every time he moved. No one had ever touched him there sexually, not on purpose, but the closer he drew to climax, the more fervently Will imagined he could just seat himself on Hannibal’s cock and fuck himself until they were both incoherent. Until Hannibal made him forget everything but how he made Will feel.

Wanting him closer, Will let go and pushed up on his knees in order to reach for the waistband of Hannibal’s pants. Together they wrestled them down to his knees. Will was not oblivious to Hannibal’s snarl and wince of pain as he lifted his hips to help, but nor did he try to resist or let Will go, like he couldn’t bear for him to get too far.

Will settled himself back on his lap, replacing his arms around Hannibal’s neck. By now his shoulder and chest were screaming with pain, his face on fire as he sought to kiss Hannibal harder, deeper, mindless of his stitches. He kissed Hannibal until he felt like he couldn’t breathe without those lips on his.

If he thought it felt good to have Hannibal rubbing against his hole before, skin to skin it was something else, exquisite and dirty as hell. The head of Hannibal’s dick smeared him with wetness like he was being baptised with it. Will too was leaking copiously over Hannibal’s hand, precome escaping each time his foreskin receded with the drag of Hannibal’s fist. The knowledge Hannibal was the one making him feel this way made him tremble uncontrollably, breaths coming hard and fast and tinged with his helpless moans.

Will was so close to coming he could taste it, and it seemed Hannibal was in a similar state. There was urgency in Hannibal’s huffs of pleasure and quiet moans, so fearsomely sensual, as he dragged bites and kisses down Will’s neck and chest, pausing to suckle at the notch at the base of his throat. He continued down to catch Will’s nipple, the one not covered by a bandage, between his teeth. They were every bit as sharp as they looked, and Will writhed and cursed at the onslaught of sensation, at how easily Hannibal made his body come alive. Made _him_ come alive. He pushed himself against Hannibal’s mouth like a touch-starved animal, groaning. The vocal proof of Will’s pleasure made Hannibal groan into their kiss, voice rough with desperation, expertly working Will’s cock while he ground up against him.

With a shaking hand, Will reached up to palm Hannibal’s jaw, pressing his thumb ungently against his plush bottom lip, and Hannibal swiped the tip with his tongue before biting down hard enough to wrench a grunt of pain from Will. Their eyes met in heated challenge, contact sparking like a live wire, and Hannibal smiled his lion’s smile, a dangerous flash of teeth around Will’s thumb. Perversely Will smiled back, feeling joy down to his toes.

The precipice was already very near when Hannibal reached farther behind him, digging his fingertips into the cleft of Will’s ass, but Will only realized his intent when he felt Hannibal brush his finger against his entrance. He could think of nothing but the need to come, to mark and claim Hannibal as his own as surely as he bore Hannibal’s scars across his body, proof of ownership. He wanted Hannibal to make him beg to be used, beg to be fucked. He wanted to beg Hannibal to never let him go again.

Suddenly that was all Will could think about. Saw, felt, heard, _tasted_ , clear as day, the delirious euphoria that would come with their joining, how Hannibal would tease him for hours before finally sliding his cock inside Will with all the self-satisfied deliberation of a knife plunging into flesh. He’d hold him down, open him up like a gift, hollow him out until nothing existed but Hannibal, until Will was his instrument, capable of singing only for him. Will’s eyes rolled back at the thought of Hannibal filling him utterly, his pleasure a reward and punishment both. When, if ever, had Will let himself be carried away by the power of his imagination for something that felt so good?

He wanted to get lost in it, float on the pleasures of his mind until the whole world fell away like the proverbial bluff crumbling into the sea. It was close, so close, but Hannibal brought him back with a rough grunt of his name and a sharp nip to his jaw, and Will remembered Hannibal was offering him a taste of what he craved, fingers still pressing against his opening in a silent question. He didn’t need to chase in his mind what existed right in front of him, in his arms. Hannibal made the need for fantasy obsolete. Like his past, Will had left his shame and secrets behind and let the ocean take them.

Will grabbed Hannibal’s hand and brought it to his lips. First to mouth at his palm, scraping his teeth against the meat at the base of his thumb, but then he held Hannibal’s gaze as he slid his lips over his index and middle fingers, sucking and bathing them with his tongue to get them wet. He felt Hannibal shudder and his expression go dazed, dropping his eyes to stare unapologetically at Will’s mouth. Will released his fingers and guided Hannibal’s hand back to his ass.

“Do it,” he rasped and arched back against Hannibal’s hand in invitation. “Come on. Fuck me.” It was wanton, slutty even, but whatever nonsense Will had been on about before regarding feeling submissive or feminine was replaced by the sheer need to feel Hannibal inside him. A glimpse, however small, of what it would feel like when Hannibal fucked him for real.

Hannibal needed no further motivation, whether to obey or follow Will over that edge. He pushed his finger inside, a shocking, pleasurable burn, and a moment later he climaxed with a low groan, painting Will with his come behind his balls and along his taint, bathing his entrance with liquid warmth. The expression on his face, as honest and vulnerable as Will had ever seen it, ignited something in his chest that was at once possessive and achingly tender.

Overcome and overstimulated, pushing back to impale himself farther on Hannibal’s finger, Will seized up and shuddered into orgasm with a rapturous cry of Hannibal’s name. He bared his teeth in a snarl against Hannibal’s mouth as he striped their bellies with his release, fingers tight in Hannibal’s hair like he couldn’t, wouldn’t let go until reality righted itself, if indeed it might ever be the same again. Will strongly suspected there would be a new world outside when he opened his eyes. He not only didn’t object, but welcomed it. He wanted a different universe that could be theirs together, that they could shape and make their own the way they’d shaped and possessed each other.

As Will fought to catch his breath, a bevy of physical complaints made themselves known as the pleasure receded, leaving him trembling with strain as much as the lingering aftershocks of orgasm. Will clung to Hannibal like he had on the cliff, drunk on their closeness and unwilling to relinquish it, euphoric and aching. The way Hannibal was breathing heavily next to Will’s face reminded him of that night too, a different kind of consummation but no less intimately carnal. Carnally intimate.

But Will was clearly not the only one feeling discomfort, and with his senses returning to him, he considered Hannibal’s abdominal injuries and the fact that the clench and strain of orgasm must have hurt something awful. Will remembered his first time jerking off after Hannibal had cut him open: the pain was almost enough to keep his hand off his dick for good. Perhaps it was telling Hannibal never told him to stop, both of them consumed and overcome by this merging of selves. As though the misery of their physical selves was a small price to pay for what they gained in their hearts.

Will pulled back to stare at Hannibal’s face, warmth glowing in his belly when he saw his expression looked no less destroyed than, Will was certain, his own. In his element as a predator, Hannibal was a sight to behold, but like this, unmoored by an appetite of a different kind, he was magnificent. That it was for Will and Will alone was too unspeakably profound a gift.

Hannibal seemed no less taken by Will. He released Will to cup his face, fingers sticky with Will’s semen as he traced his temple with his fingertips. Will didn’t care. How ignorant he’d been, in retrospect, when it was so obvious how dearly Hannibal loved his face. How capable of tenderness when he looked at Will this way. Saw him through and through, straight to the back of his skull. Smiling foolishly, Will turned his head to nuzzle Hannibal’s palm, opening his mouth to taste himself, and chuckled to himself when Hannibal parted his lips with a stunned breath.

Then Hannibal gently withdrew his finger from Will’s ass, and Will shivered and moaned and felt his cock give an aborted twitch. Rather than release him, however, Hannibal continued to slide his fingers up and down Will’s crease, spreading his own come around as though Will wanted further marking. It sent a dazed thrill through him, warm and futile, and Will tipped his head back to allow Hannibal to pepper his jaw and throat with slow kisses and scrapes of teeth. Again Hannibal found his nipple and kissed it tenderly, then teased it back to hardness with gentle bites and excruciating flicks of his tongue.

Will squirmed with frustrated, impotent arousal, pushing his chest against Hannibal’s mouth. “Figures you’d be a glutton for punishment,” he gasped wryly but couldn’t bring himself to make Hannibal stop. He’d yet to go entirely soft, and this was bordering on overstimulation, a very different kind of torture than he ever expected to experience at Hannibal’s hands--but fitting. He cursed under his breath and stuttered out a moan that sounded embarrassingly breathy, even to him.

“Yet you continue to make the most exquisite sounds for me,” Hannibal answered lazily, uninterested in Will’s protests.

To prove a point, because Hannibal did so love proving a point, his finger breached Will again, pushing the remnants of his come into him and wrenching a shattered groan from Will’s throat. It slid in easily, and as if Hannibal anticipated Will’s thoughts a second before Will could think them, he withdrew and reached to gather more of his semen with a light drag of fingertips against Will’s perineum before returning to circle his hole. Teasing, promising, and with no further warning given, he bit down gently on Will’s nipple and simultaneously thrust back inside with two fingers, making Will keen in blissful agony. He shuddered uncontrollably and his cock released one final spurt of come.

Hannibal lifted his head to gaze at him, a smile quirking the corner of his mouth even as he visibly attempted to school his pained expression. Will wasn’t sure whether to stare back with concern or ire, then decided he couldn’t really be pissed at Hannibal for having the astuteness to know what they both wanted, though he did grimace when Hannibal withdrew his fingers a second time. This wasn’t exactly how he’d anticipated the evening would go, but it felt right, and more importantly, had whetted his appetite for more. Maybe when they were capable of looking--and feeling--less like death warmed over.

“Never expected you to exhibit such caveman instincts, Dr. Lecter,” Will rasped, going for levity even with his voice tight. It was increasingly a struggle to ignore his throbbing face and shoulder. “You could’ve just fucked me if you wanted your come inside me so bad.”

Hannibal did smile then, fondly, but it was very clear to Will how much he’d pushed himself. Likely too far, and wouldn’t it just be the kicker of a lifetime if a clumsy adolescent rut was the thing that finally proved to be the Chesapeake Ripper’s downfall.

“There’s no need to be crude, Will,” he scolded without heat. “But given our physical limitations at present, I see no alternative to the current arrangement.” Hannibal leaned in so their noses brushed, then their mouths. He murmured, “Though you can be certain this is a conversation I’d like to return to in future.”

Gingerly Will pushed himself off Hannibal’s lap and climbed from the bed, grateful when Hannibal reached out to steady him with hands firm against his waist. Will grimaced at the feeling of come slithering down the inside of his thighs, but dismay quickly replaced distaste when he saw the red blossom of blood staining the bandage around Hannibal’s middle, proof they’d overtaxed him.

When Will was stable on his feet, he helped Hannibal stand and right his clothes, though it was clear from Hannibal’s moue his first stop would be the bathroom. Will could only guess whether his frown was because he’d reopened his wound or because of Will’s release drying sticky in his chest hair and on his belly. Knowing Hannibal it was the latter, but Will couldn’t help but feel a little smug to see him marked.

“Let’s get cleaned up,” he said and ducked beneath Hannibal’s arm for support. “Those stitches of yours want redoing.”

“I can take care of it,” Hannibal insisted, though he accepted Will’s help in getting to the bathroom.

“Before or after you keel over?” Hannibal didn’t answer except to scowl, and Will rolled his eyes. “Just come on. I have no desire to haul your dead weight around if you pass out, so do us both a favour and stuff it.”

“I can assure you I am in no danger of passing out,” Hannibal said with dignity, even as he blanched at the effort it took them to lower him onto the closed toilet.

“Sure. And you also acquire your meat through traditional means.”

At that Hannibal huffed what sounded like a laugh, but all Will cared about was it signified he had given up arguing.  

Will quickly learned there was no graceful way to clean up spent come when you couldn’t just step in the shower and rinse it down the drain, but he was dutiful, after batting Hannibal’s hands away, in filling the sink with water and thoroughly washing them both before he donned a pair of nitrile gloves and saw to Hannibal’s torn stitches. It wasn’t as bad as he feared, however, and Hannibal was an ideal patient once he accepted Will would not tolerate his protests.

In fact, Will could tell from the furrow in Hannibal’s brow he was more concerned about the state of Will’s chest and face despite not having torn any stitches. Typical, but also… touching, however redundant. The shoulder Will had dislocated ached something awful, but he knew from experience that’d go away on its own. Maybe if he laid off, well… getting laid. Still, he couldn’t say he regretted it. It was shocking how much he didn’t regret it. Fresh in his mind were his fantasies of Hannibal fucking him, and Will couldn’t say he wouldn’t want to try again even if it prolonged both their recovery periods.

“I recommend gentle stretching of any injury in time, but this may have gone too far,” Hannibal said, gently running his thumb over Will’s chest once the bandage had been replaced. He looked grey and exhausted, every bit as wrung-out as Will felt. “Perhaps we were overly ambitious.”

Will arched an eyebrow, expression otherwise flat. “By which I assume you mean _I_ was overly ambitious, seeing as how I’m the one who jumped you.”

Hannibal tenderly stroked a hand down Will’s face, grazing the bandage on his cheek with the backs of his fingers. “I could not find it in me to dissuade you,” he answered. “Not looking so lovely. You’ll find there is very little I could ever deny you, not even when I know it is against our best interests.”

Will snorted. “The more fool you, then.”

“For you, yes,” said Hannibal with the typical amount of uncomfortable sincerity. “I am.”

There was nothing Will could say to that. He was perched on the edge of the bathtub next to where Hannibal sat on the closed toilet, close enough proximity for him to tend to the stitches, but with that done, he pulled off his gloves and threw them in the sink, then stood and went to straddle Hannibal’s lap. He clasped his hands around the back of Hannibal’s neck and sighed when Hannibal settled his hands upon his waist like a sad, middle-aged parody of a high school slow dance.

It was not unlike how they’d had sex either, and although they were both still naked, there was no pretending they had stamina left for anything but sleep. Part of Will wanted to see how it felt to be this close to Hannibal when he wasn’t half out of his mind with need. Desire still simmered in his gut--now that he’d opened himself to it, to Hannibal, he suspected it always would--but the simple act of touching quieted something in him like when he’d embraced Hannibal in the kitchen earlier.

“You’ve already proven how incapable you are of acting in your own best interests where I’m concerned,” Will said softly. Reverently. He stroked his fingers through Hannibal’s hair, pushing it back from his forehead while being mindful of his bruises. “And I guess that goes both ways, but no one would have blamed you for letting me drown after I pushed us off that cliff. A watery grave of my own making.”

At that Hannibal went very still, so still that Will cocked his head slightly to look at him. His mouth drew into a flat line, and he waited, still carding his fingers through Hannibal’s hair, for what he’d say. Somewhat surprisingly, Will found he had no clue. He sensed it wasn’t mere denial Hannibal was forming in his mind.

But he continued to wait, unease growing, and Hannibal said nothing until: “I’d like to lie down, if you please.” He lowered his gaze to an indistinct point near Will’s chin.

Will frowned but didn’t contradict the request, sliding off Hannibal’s lap to let him stand. He was positive Hannibal was conscious of how Will was staring at him, willing him to say more, but he seemed to be looking everywhere but at Will. With a sigh, Will gave up. “Go on, then. I’ll clean up.”

Hannibal shook his head and waved a dismissive hand at the sink. Before Will could parse his meaning, he was already shambling toward the bathroom door. “Leave it for now,” he said over his shoulder. “A rest would do us both good, and I would appreciate the company.”

If whatever Hannibal was chewing on, so to speak, could compel him to abandon his transparently OCD tendencies, Will had no doubt it was serious. But nor did he particularly wish to wheedle it out of him with circular arguments and increasingly opaque metaphors, so Will let it be--and wasn’t that about as characteristic as Hannibal’s sudden personality transplant--and followed him to the spare bedroom. It seemed this momentary lapse of fastidiousness also extended to the soiled sheets in Hannibal’s room, but Will, who in his current state had as much desire to strip the mattress as he did another dip in the Atlantic, didn’t bother point it out.

The spare room, as it turned out, was really Abigail’s old bedroom. Will had been too distracted by his battered body and Hannibal’s, well, Hannibal- _ness_ to explore the house earlier, but nor could he say the discovery surprised him. He’d expected to find traces of Abigail around, and here it was. The pot of gold at the end of his nightmare rainbow.

It pricked a feeling of sadness in his belly, but time had dulled the ache of Abigail’s loss to something akin to what Will imagined phantom limb pain was like. With its sophisticated grey walls, tufted bed frame, and jewel-tone accents, nothing about the decor particularly proclaimed it as a young woman’s bedroom, but Will felt her presence, just as he knew if he were to open the closet door, Abigail’s embroidered kimono would be hanging there like a revenant. He half expected to turn around find her standing there, arms crossed, watching them with a knowing smirk and a glimmer in her eye, but she hadn’t appeared to him since the Palatine Chapel. One way or another, she’d been laid to rest.

As Hannibal passed the desk where she would have sat to write or read or draw, he ran a hand reverently over its surface. Sitting there were a black leather journal and a pen, both cleaned of dust, and Hannibal silently straightened them, everything perfectly at right angles. That gesture alone told Will no one had inhabited this space since Abigail and wouldn’t again; they were merely temporary guests, though he didn’t think she would begrudge their trespassing. But the brief tightening of Hannibal’s lips and his downcast eyes told Will far more, and he gently placed a hand on his flank and leaned in to kiss his shoulder. Such a small, unfamiliar thing, but he felt the tension run out of Hannibal at the gesture like a line that’d been cut. He breathed out and turned until his and Will’s foreheads touched.

“Come to bed,” Hannibal murmured, mouth still touched with sorrow, and Will nodded once.

With a hand clutched about his middle, Hannibal removed the pillows from the bed and handed them to Will to pile on a chair, then pulled the covers back. With difficulty they settled in, and for a moment Will felt like they were two corpses lying stiffly side by side until he shuffled closer to Hannibal and pillowed his head on his chest. A second later he felt Hannibal curl an arm around him, the press of his nose against Will’s hair, followed by a long, deep inhale. Hannibal seemed to hold his scent inside him for a few beats before letting it out, before pressing a kiss to his head, and Will, too, released a slow breath.

They were quiet for a while. Will was unnerved to find the silence not entirely comfortable. Next to him Hannibal was wooden and tense, the opposite of what you were ideally supposed to feel after sex, and Will swallowed around an iron knot in his stomach. He could all but hear Hannibal thinking, turning things over and over in that labyrinthine mind of his.

“Normally I’m the one who’s withdrawn after sex,” Will said, unable to stand it any longer. He immediately regretted it because Jesus, that was clingy, but Hannibal, if it even had to be said, wasn’t like other people. His silences tended to be more nuanced than _That was fun, but I have no intention of calling you again_. His silences tended to end with Will bleeding out, but Will couldn’t make himself say the dreaded words: _What are you thinking about?_

Perhaps trust was something they both needed to work on.

Hannibal squeezed his shoulder in a way that slightly fell short of reassuring. “I apologize, Will,” he murmured. “Our exertions have left me tired and sore.” He did sound it, but it also sounded suspiciously like bullshit. “I’m afraid I’m only human.”

Will grunted. “That’s news to me.”

“The cost of being seen is having to relinquish one’s air of mystery.”

“But not one’s air of pretentiousness.” Suddenly frustrated, Will dislodged Hannibal’s arm and rolled onto his back, pissed he couldn’t put his back to him entirely since it would mean sleeping on his bad shoulder. It was almost worth it, but even Will wasn’t that much of a masochist. “I’ll let you sleep, then. Night.”

“Good night, Will.” If Will had anticipated his churlishness would provoke a response, he shouldn’t have. Hannibal fleetingly ran his fingers down the side of Will’s arm, then was still.

Molly’d had this rule, when they fought, to always call a truce before they went to sleep. Now Will understood why. He never saw himself as petty prior to meeting Hannibal, not like he was feeling now, but it was certainly something Hannibal brought out in him. Tit for tat. He would have loved nothing more than to lie awake out of spite, but for all his insecurity, his irritation, before long he felt sleep pulling at him with stubborn inevitability. He didn’t even have the satisfaction of leaving Hannibal to wake to an empty bed, for by the time Will finally opened his eyes again, it was morning and the mattress beside him had long since gone cold.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, bbs! Thanks to those who have stuck with the fic and shared their enthusiasm for its conclusion, and a special thanks to R.C. for the beta. <3 
> 
> Chapter warnings include spoilers, so please see the notes at the end.

Will’s mood had scarcely lifted by the time he choked down a breakfast of perfectly cooked porridge and a coffee made with condensed milk that Hannibal referred to as  _ cà phê sữa nóng _ , or Vietnamese coffee to anyone who wasn’t a pretentious cannibal or Vietnamese. Then Will readied himself to go out. He’d had to forego painkillers in anticipation of getting behind the wheel, and after last night’s ill-advised fuck, he felt like he’d been beaten with a tire iron and left for dead. He imagine he must look roughly as good. 

For his part Hannibal seemed neither distracted nor upset, bustling around the kitchen to prepare breakfast. Not in a way Will would describe as spritely, but somewhat more like his old self. Will saw through the performance, however.  _ Maddeningly polite _ , Hannibal once called it. His argument, at least one of many, for why Will shouldn’t go home to his wife and son. So he’d become a wanted man to have it with Hannibal instead. 

Will would have laughed at that if it didn’t make him feel so damned hollow inside, but whatever was on Hannibal’s mind, Will wasn’t going to wheedle it out of him with stony silences and petulant looks. Since he’d already tried throwing them off a cliff, that left him short of options except to just get on with it and hope the bee in Hannibal’s bonnet wouldn’t end in too much bloodshed.

“Make me a grocery list,” he told Hannibal over his shoulder as he painfully wrestled on his jacket. Hannibal looked up from where he was reading on the couch, eyebrows raised in polite inquiry, and Will stared at his forehead to avoid meeting his eyes. “I’m leaving in an hour to get some of the stuff we need.”

First he planned to investigate the shed out back. He hoped it wasn’t completely barren of supplies since hitting up the nearest Home Depot for plastic sheeting and a hacksaw would be a bit blatant. Maybe not for Hannibal, but Will had some standards. The way the morning was going, he could have spent the whole day out there to escape the stifling silence inside, waiting for Hannibal to decide to shit or get off the pot, but there were snow flurries on the breeze and angry grey clouds rolling in, promising a storm. Will had no particular yen to die of exposure to make a point because Hannibal couldn’t use his words. 

He stalked out without waiting for an answer and made his way to the shed. For once luck was in his favour. It was equipped with a large stainless steel table, ostensibly for gardening if you were anyone but Hannibal, along with a staple gun, a well-equipped toolbox, a saw, industrial black garbage bags, cleaning supplies, and half a dozen clear plastic tarps, most of them still in the original packaging, unopened. Will would’ve found it disturbing were it anyone else, but for Hannibal, it was just good old-fashioned preparedness. 

One by one Will tossed what he needed into a creaky green wheelbarrow and towed everything to the patio where Dolarhyde lay, covered in a layer of snow that’d fallen overnight but not frozen; Will could just about smell him. He stopped a moment just to gaze at him, finding Dolarhyde smaller in death, although the sight of him still filled Will’s belly with a simmering resentment. As much as Will wanted to hit the road and get the world’s most daredevil grocery run over with, he was sick and tired of staring at that son of a bitch’s corpse through the blown-out window and had even less desire to smell it. Furthermore, he was done freezing his balls off because Dolarhyde was too trigger-happy to use the damn door. That window needed fixing before he did anything else. The rest he’d see to later.

Muttering under his breath about what a lazy bastard Hannibal could be when the mood struck, even though Will knew it was probably unfair under the circumstances, he swept away the broken glass and snow that’d accumulated, then judged he could probably get away with sealing off the window with no more than two tarps, one inside and one out. 

The pain was not insignificant, but Will gritted his teeth through it long enough to get the plastic tacked up with the staple gun, working his way from top to bottom until it held firm, secure enough to withstand the harsh March chill and keep more heat from escaping. Inside was easier without the wind constantly wrenching the tarp out of his grasp and making his fingers go numb with cold. Will was conscious of Hannibal watching him for most of it, not even pretending to read. He wore a neutral look on his face and held a hand protectively over his wound like Will might come for him with the staple gun next, but said nothing.

“Got that list for me?” Will asked when he was finished, knowing for a fact Hannibal hadn’t moved from the couch since Will first mentioned it. Will was breathing hard and sweating from the pain in his shoulder and just about everywhere else, and he dropped the staple gun on the dining room table with a bit more force than was necessary.

Rather than look abashed, Hannibal pulled a sheet of paper out from between the pages of the book he was reading-- _ The Master and Margarita _ , Will noted humorlessly--and proffered it to Will with the usual amount of infuriating calm. The only thing that prevented Will from rolling his eyes outright was how unquestionably tired Hannibal looked. Will’s desire to go to him warred with the instinct to keep himself at a safe distance. Emotionally at least. But if here were honest, there was no such thing as a safe emotional distance from Hannibal. No matter the time or miles that separated them, Will had only to look at him to be right back where he’d started, too in love to see sense. It was almost no comfort at all that Hannibal felt the same way. If anything love made him more dangerous, a fact Will knew all too intimately.

“Suggestions only,” said Hannibal lightly as Will took the list. Their fingers brushed and Will cursed himself for the immediate desire for more, already touch starved after no more than a day. “I will be content with whatever you’re able to procure for us.”

Will barely had to glance at the first couple items to know Hannibal was fucking with him. He folded it up and stuffed it in his jacket pocket with a wry expression. “Sure as hell won’t be quail’s eggs, but nice try.”

It infuriated Will, fundamentally, that he could be so irritated with Hannibal and yet experience a jolt of genuine concern when he sat up with a grimace of pain and heaved himself to his feet. His knuckles were ghostly white around the arm of the sofa, and he continued to clutch his wound with the other. Before he could overthink it, Will moved to help, supporting Hannibal with an arm around his waist. 

“Forgive me,” Hannibal said absurdly as he found his feet. Will stepped away, frowning. “You’ll need money and identification.”

Will would have fetched it himself but said nothing as Hannibal shuffled to the bedroom, where presumably he had a safe containing all the necessary documents. He returned and handed Will a brown wallet. It was finer than anything Will had ever bought for himself, the leather buttery soft, and yet how typical for Hannibal to say nothing of the gift, like it was commonplace. 

When Will opened the wallet, he saw himself staring back from a forged driver’s license under the name Malcolm Carver. Flashing a dry look at Hannibal at the inelegant pun, he checked the billfold and found close to a thousand dollars inside, plus an embossed business card bearing the name of a lawyer, a Robert C. Lloyd of Lloyd & Smith LLC. Will held it up with his eyebrows lifted in a question.

“In the event the worst should come to pass,” said Hannibal evenly. “Mr. Lloyd will know what to do.”

“You mean he’ll know how to get word to you that you should run.”

Mouth a tight line, Hannibal met Will’s eyes. “I will not leave without you a second time,” he said. “Whatever happens. Although you might find Uncle Jack inclined to believe you if you say I brought and held you here against your will.”

The thought alone made Will scoff, half turning away to direct his ugly laugh at the ceiling. He’d once admitted to Jack he longed to run away with Hannibal. That was as true then as now, and Will was positive Jack knew it the second news of Hannibal’s escape broke. There’d be no fooling him a second time, no forgiving Will his sins where Hannibal was concerned. If the world ever learned what became of them, that they were alive, they would all know Will had run with Hannibal by choice. Perhaps most important of all was Will  _ wanted _ them to. Let them see. Let them see and understand, finally, what he was and whom he loved.

“That’s not going to happen either,” he said tightly, hearing the hurt in his own voice. He opened his mouth to berate Hannibal for even suggesting it, another sign something was very off here. But not knowing where to begin, he closed it again. Whether because of his own past duplicity or an innate gut feeling, Will had gotten good at knowing when he was being set up, and this wasn’t that. He didn’t know what to make of it, was wary even of considering it too deeply, and he was so wrung-out that the thought of provoking an argument turned his stomach. “I’ll grab a burner phone and call if there’s trouble. The landline to this house still works?”

Hannibal nodded and went to write down the number. He showed it to Will and let him memorize it, repeating the numbers forwards and backwards in his head til they stuck, and then Hannibal crumpled the page and threw it into the fire.

With one last look at Hannibal, tracing his eyes over his face like it was imperative he take his time, Will pulled himself away and made for the door. He suddenly felt as though they were celestial bodies passing close in orbit but never quite touching, eternally separated by time and space. The feeling was an incredibly lonely one, and he ducked his head to avoid letting Hannibal see his expression before it crumpled.

“Will.”

At the sound of his voice, Will turned, guarded but unable to resist Hannibal’s gravity. He was standing with his hands in the pockets of his pyjama pants and looked terrible, a shadow lurking in his eyes. Most shocking of all was that he let Will see it, even if he refused to give it a name. Will wanted to shout at him to spill his secrets. It seemed ludicrous they should have any after everything they’d shared, everything they’d lost and risked and given to each other. To be free. To be together. For the simple fact of not being alone anymore. Last night Will had felt, however briefly, like the loop finally closed. Now he wondered if there’d ever be an end to it, or were they destined to be like Orpheus and Eurydice, walking separate paths to some unknown shore, forbidden to see one another lest they disappear entirely?  

Hannibal drew nearer and reached out to cup Will’s cheek; the touch nearly broke him. It was Will’s decision to go off on his own for what they needed to survive the coming weeks and months, but it seemed more like he was being sent away. When Hannibal leaned in for a kiss, a long, slow meeting of their mouths, it felt like  _ good-bye _ and  _ don’t go _ all at once. 

Hannibal moved his hand to cradle the back of Will’s head, ostensibly to hold him close, but at the same time, Will felt him withdrew his other hand from his pocket. Over the years Will had learned to listen to the odd gut feelings and lurches of intuition that, to a cop, often meant the difference between life and death, and when he felt a slither of unease in his belly, reptile brain thrilling to some unknown and unseen danger, he didn’t stop to analyse it, only moved. Immediately he found himself held firm while Hannibal brought his other hand up. From the corner of his eye, Will saw a metallic glint of something and  _ reacted _ .

He bit down hard on Hannibal’s lip hard enough to break the skin. The taste of blood flooded his mouth. With a surprised noise, Hannibal lurched back, and Will didn’t hesitate to seize the opening. Hannibal was stronger and faster than him under normal circumstances, but in his current state he was injured and slow, and Will, who hadn’t taken any painkillers that morning, had the added benefit of being clearheaded. He ducked out from under Hannibal’s hand and gripped the opposite arm, in which he now saw was clutched a hypodermic needle, and struck out with his right hand to deliver a jab to Hannibal’s jaw that snapped his head back. Before Hannibal could recover, Will grabbed his shoulder and ducked low, turning from the hip and using his momentum to throw Hannibal to the ground. Hannibal landed on his back with a grunt of pain. 

Racing on the sudden surge of adrenaline, Will, without pausing, snatched up the needle and stabbed it into Hannibal’s neck as he’d clearly intended to do to Will, then shoved the plunger of the syringe down with his thumb. Hannibal grabbed for him. His fingers barely grazed Will’s shoulder before the drugs began to take effect, overcoming him with astounding swiftness. Hannibal went limp, head connecting with the floor with a thud, and he tried to focus his eyes on Will before they rolled back and then closed.

Stunned, breathing noisily from exertion as much as shock, Will sat down heavily, all but collapsing as his gaze locked on Hannibal’s unconscious body. He was bleeding from the mouth where Will had bitten him. Will released the needle as though burned; it clattered to the ground. He held up his hands to stare at them like they might be covered in blood and watched as they started to shake uncontrollably.

What could have been five minutes or an hour slid by. The only sounds were the crackling of the fire and the gusting of wind outside, Will’s noisy breaths. He couldn’t tear his eyes from Hannibal, half expecting him to stir back to wakefulness or for himself to realize this was all some crazy dream, but it wasn’t. This was real, present. This was really happening. 

In reality Will had no idea what’d been in that syringe. All he knew was Hannibal was still breathing, so like likely it was a sedative of some kind. Had Hannibal succeeded in his original plan, Will might’ve woken up with a bad case of dry mouth and a headache, but of course the real question wasn’t what Hannibal intended to dose him with, but rather what he planned to do with Will while he was out. Or after he woke up, since Hannibal never liked to perform without an audience.

The thought sent anger spiralling through Will. He remembered he ashen taste of betrayal all too clearly. Had he ever really forgotten it where Hannibal was concerned? Or was his anger because Hannibal could still hide himself from Will like drawing shutters over a window?

He tried to feel his way backwards to their conversation the night before, the moment he’d felt Hannibal pull away. Clearly Will’s reference to the fall had upset him, but it wasn’t the first time they’d discussed it. Nor, he imagined, the last. What evidence could Will read when Hannibal had so much practice at hiding and revealing it according to his own whims? Will had been in a state of hypervigilance all night and this morning, reacting to Hannibal’s mood without knowing the root of it, but he was flying blind. He’d ripped the blindfold off only to find himself in a room without light.

Whatever the answer was left Will trembling for an altogether different reason than anger. He could feel the fading ripples of Hannibal’s thoughts, his mental state and motivation for attacking Will, and it wasn’t rage, wasn’t the devastating disdain he had towards his victims; it was sadness. Impossible, hopeless, choking sadness. For a moment the feeling was so powerful and so real that Will wanted to tear at his hair and scream himself hoarse. What the fuck had he done to make Hannibal feel so alone, like the world was crumbling out from under him? He’d thought they were on that bluff together.

Will staggered to his feet and over to Hannibal’s side. It would serve him right for Will to leave him lying there, but Will’s good nature got the better of him as usual, and he wondered if dropping Hannibal to the ground so violently might have caused him further injury. Will forced himself to shove down the pang of guilt. Will would feel sorry if Hannibal woke up in more pain than before, but he refused to apologize, even silently, for defending himself. You didn’t hesitate or apologize for defending yourself against an animal set to attack, even one who occasionally acted like a friend. You just did it because sometimes survival was more important than politeness. This was Hannibal’s own doing. Perhaps not motivated by malice, but still his own doing, his own refusal to air his grievances--whatever they were--like a normal person. But then, they were neither of them normal, were they? 

Will sighed. He already knew he’d never leave Hannibal lying there, and there was no point pretending otherwise. With his injured shoulder screaming in protest, he hooked his hands under Hannibal’s armpits, dragged him to the sofa, and hauled him onto the cushions. A struggle, certainly, but at the same time, Will’s body seemed to anticipate Hannibal’s dead weight like it was familiar, muscle memory harkening back to something just beyond the reach of Will’s mind. He took care to place a pillow beneath Hannibal’s head for support and brushed the hair back from the face it sometimes seemed he both loved and hated. He then searched Hannibal’s pockets for any weapons he might have hidden but found nothing.

At a loose end, Will sat down heavily on the sofa next to Hannibal’s feet. His mind was turning in circles like a car spinning its tires, spitting up earth and digging him deeper and deeper but never taking him closer to the truth or what it could mean. Was Hannibal going to wake up and try to kill him? Would he force Will’s hand in some way they wouldn’t recover from, separately or together?

A sudden whoosh of plastic jolted Will out of his thoughts. He jerked his gaze away from Hannibal’s sleeping face towards the sound and saw the tarp-covered window rustling with the wind, once open but now sealing them inside. Beyond it the impressionistic blur of trees and sky and Dolarhyde’s body were still visible, cliffs and sea beyond even that, and Will sat up like cold iron had just been poured down his spine. He stood.

An inexplicable flare of anger drove his footsteps to the door and outside, where he came to a halt in front of the man he and Hannibal had killed. Dolarhyde’s face was frozen in a rictus, but he looked comically grotesque, not fearsome. The Great Red Dragon indeed, impotent and powerless in death, worth only Will’s disdain and resentment, nothing more. What a fucking waste. Not of Dolarhyde’s potential--no. It’d have been no great loss if he  _ had _ committed suicide, although maybe that was jealousy speaking. He’d cost Will so much. Molly. Walter. Quite possibly he’d cost Will and Hannibal each other too, and that was most unforgivable of all. Maybe there’d always be something or someone else threatening their ability to have a life together, but Dolarhyde was here now, a convenient outlet for his righteous fury, and Will could care less about whether or not he was being unfair to a corpse.  _ You play, you pay _ , he thought. And Dolarhyde had played and lost.

Will stared at him blankly for a moment, rage continuing to roil in his stomach as the wind whipped at his hair and stung his face with its icy touch. The roar of blood in his ears almost entirely drowned out the crash of the ocean below. Will clenched his fists and felt something take shape and take shape until suddenly it clicked over and he burst into action, purpose burning like a live ember at the back of his mind. 

He’d left the wheelbarrow sitting there. Will dragged it over, then stooped to lift Dolarhyde by the forearms and dumped him inside, graceless as a sack of rocks. Even through the layers of leather jacket and clothing, Will felt, with the firmness of his grasp, that the epidermis had started to slip. This many days postmortem, the connective tissues were deteriorating, separating from the flesh beneath like sliding the skin off a boiled peach. Will recalled how the skin Georgia Madchen’s arm had come off in his hand, no more than a fleshy sleeve. It was an image he couldn’t turn his mind from, lodging in his thoughts like a raspberry seed stuck in his teeth.

Once he got the body into the wheelbarrow, Will noticed a metallic glint against the patio stone, a flash of silver stained with red. Dolarhyde’s knife, the one he’d used to cut Will and which Will then gutted him with. What Hannibal had called his forgiveness, in another life. Will picked up the knife and pocketed it. He didn’t forgive shit. 

 

+

 

Despite Hannibal’s warnings to keep his stitches dry, Will headed straight for the shower when he came inside. Along the way he stripped off clothes that’d be good for nothing but the fireplace after, smelling of sweat, the coppery tang of blood, and God knew what else. He didn’t intend to suffer Dolarhyde’s taint on his skin a moment longer than necessary, and it’d been hours. Hannibal was bound to wake up any minute now. Will planned to be ready when he did.

Guiltily he tried to keep his shoulder and face out of the spray, but the hot shower felt incredible against his abused body, washing off the day’s nightmares much like the Atlantic had washed away his old life. Symbolic rebirths were one thing, an image Hannibal would no doubt be partial to, but Will preferred to dictate his own becoming. 

He was seated next to the fire and lazily towelling his hair when Hannibal finally came to, stirring groggily into wakefulness with a groan. The sun was starting to draw low in the sky in a haze of desaturated orange and red, casting its dreamy light over everything and darkening shadows like reaching claws. Will had placed a chair in front of the windows overlooking the patio and tied Hannibal to it, not because he doubted his ability to subdue him again, but because he wanted Hannibal to wake up and see, before he noticed Will or anything else, the design Will had created with all the painstaking labour of a love letter. 

He was watching Hannibal closely. He saw the exact moment he took in the tableau Will had left for him, heard his soft intake of breath and the creak of rope about his wrists as though Hannibal were trying to reach out and touch it.

Closing his eyes, Will imagined it through Hannibal’s eyes: Dolarhyde suspended by ropes from a tree, exposed muscles and tendons gleaming slickly red in the light of the setting sun, the glint of his knife clutched in a bloody, raw hand. The other, raised, dangling Dolarhyde’s skin like a pelt, a pelt Will had painstakingly removed in order to preserve its shape. His person suit, literally, shed so the world could see the unimpressively mortal creature beneath. 

In undressing Dolarhyde, Will had revealed the huge dragon tattoo that covered the back of him from head to foot. He’d seen glimpses of it in the video of Chilton’s attack, but compared to the rest of the slowly rotting corpse, it was the only vibrant thing left, colours shockingly rich against grey, lifeless skin. It was this Will displayed most prominently, showcasing what Dolarhyde forfeited in death and which he scarcely deserved in life. He was the Great Red Dragon no longer. It set a fire in Will’s heart that burned brightly and warmed him to his toes, message and monument both. A love poem for the beauty of his and Hannibal’s destructive power.

Perhaps he made some noise of satisfaction, admiring his own work, for Hannibal tilted his head slightly, suddenly aware of Will’s presence. For a moment they simply sat and breathed; Will could see Hannibal’s shoulders rising and falling with each slow, deep breath, though Will couldn’t say for sure his eyes were open. He might be picturing how Will prepared the tableau, following the process in his mind from conception to completion. 

“Valverde  de Amusco's  _ Historia de la composicion del cuerpo humano _ ,” said Hannibal at last, though he didn’t turn, didn’t look at Will. “And I see he’s holding your forgiveness. A fitting choice, though quite a humiliating one for our Dragon.” His voice sounded very deep and rough, as though he were speaking through some great emotion. “What a thing of beauty, Will.”

“Stop calling him the Dragon,” Will said calmly, voice void of feeling. His anger was gone, having burned itself out with each cut of the knife into Dolarhyde’s flesh. “It isn’t his name. Not anymore.”

“No,” Hannibal agreed. “You’ve taken it from him.”

Will hummed his acknowledgement and wondered if Hannibal could feel the heat of his gaze directed at the back of his head. He rose from his armchair and came to stand in front of Hannibal, blocking his view of Dolarhyde and the cliffs below. “He tried to steal from me,” he said. “You weren’t his to take. Weren’t his to  _ change _ . You’re mine.”

Hannibal lifted his eyes to meet Will’s gaze, holding it steadily. His expression was almost unreadable, guarded, though there was a flush high on his cheeks and his eyes glittered like black diamonds. His lips were a deep, lascivious red like the flesh of a burst cherry, and there was no mistaking the growing tent in his pyjama pants. Whatever else was going through Hannibal’s head, he was turned on and breathing heavily, staring at Will like he wanted to devour him whole. His gaze was so electric that Will felt an answering pang of arousal arrow through him. 

“I’m not sure what to make of this possessive streak of yours, Will.”

Wetting his lips, Will asked, “Don’t you? You don’t think, after everything, I might have a thing or two to say about someone else touching what belongs to me?”

It was slight, so slight, but Hannibal dropped his chin down and barely half an inch to the right. He was still looking at Will almost head-on, but it was the wary way one gazed at a predator, unwilling to take your eyes off them completely. Will recognized it because it was how he’d once looked at Hannibal. He didn’t know when he’d stopped. Will went to his knees in front of him without breaking Hannibal’s gaze.

Hannibal parted his lips with a soft, wounded note of surprise when Will cupped his half-hard cock through the fabric of his pyjamas, giving it a gentle squeeze before he moved to the waistband of his pants and undid the tie. He kept their eyes locked together as if daring Hannibal to look away. Gently he reached under the waistband, suppressing a groan at the warm, bare flesh he encountered beneath, growing harder beneath his hand, and drew Hannibal’s cock out to a low sound of need.

He parted his lips to place a sucking kiss against the underside of his cock, inhaling the musk of him on such a long breath that he felt a little lightheaded after. The moan that fell from Hannibal’s lips was so exquisite that Will barely had a chance to acknowledge the throb of pain in his cheek as he opened his jaw and swallowed him down. All he could feel, smell, and taste was Hannibal; if he tried very hard, he was all Will could hear or see too. He was already all he thought about.

A part of him missed feeling Hannibal’s hands against his skin or in his hair; his wrists were bound to the chair behind his back, just as he was at the ankles. But it was thrilling to have such unfettered access to his body this way, Hannibal helpless except to feel the hot pull and suck of Will’s mouth, the slide of his lips as Will trailed them down the shaft and back up to mouth and lap at the head of his cock. He had next to no idea what he was doing save what he knew made him feel good, and Hannibal’s unabashed groans and shudders of delight helped guide him. When he cupped a hand beneath Hannibal’s balls, he found them tight, drawn up, a sign he was close to coming from nothing more than Will’s mouth and the proof of his love writ on Dolarhyde’s body, bared for Hannibal to see. 

Will clutched Hannibal’s thigh with his free hand and and dug his fingers in, groaning around his not-insignificant girth. He was painfully hard in his pants, desperate to come, but he held back and poured that desperation into getting Hannibal off instead, sucking as hard as he could until the pain in his cheek made his head spin.

Unable to resist a glimpse, Will glanced up at Hannibal’s face. He was staring back at Will--of course. With his eyes half-slitted and glazed with need, he met Will’s gaze and let him see all that terrible, impossible love. Will swallowed him as far as he could without breaking eye contact, let Hannibal feel how deep Will was willing to take him inside. Deeper than the constraints of his physical body, certainly. He wanted to consume him the way a black hole consumed an exploding star.

With a shuddering, devastated groan of Will’s name, Hannibal came, straining against his bonds like he could pull free with willpower alone. Will managed to swallow without choking, though the saltiness of Hannibal’s come stung the inside of his cheek something awful, and he was panting and gasping heavily when he finally released him. For several minutes it was all he could do to breathe and shiver with his face pressed against Hannibal’s knee.

When he could feel his wits returning to him, Will wiped a hand over his mouth and sat back, allowing himself to drink in Hannibal in this undone state, reveling in his awful beauty. Hands still shaking, Will withdrew a switchblade from the pocket of his pants, then flicked it open. Hannibal flinched minutely, if visibly. 

“Will--”

“Shut up.” His voice sounded ruined, barely himself.

Will lowered his eyes and began cutting through the ropes at Hannibal’s ankles. He wanted to lean in and bury his face in Hannibal’s lap again, breathe him in until he was drunk on the smell of him. But this situation was so far beyond the pale that Will, even with all the faculties of imagination at his disposal, didn’t know how to make heads or tails of it.

Before he got to Hannibal’s bound wrists, Will asked roughly, “Are you going to try to attack me again if I free you?”

They stared at one another like two big cats sizing each other up. Hannibal said, “No. You have my word.”

The last of the rope fell away and pooled on the ground with a soft  _ snick _ . Hannibal tucked himself back inside his pants, then rubbed his wrists and tenderly touched his fingers to his jaw, his injured lip. Will had cleaned the wound but was sure it still twinged. Good. Perversely he wanted to care for him and hurt him simultaneously. 

The moment Hannibal rose to his feet, the latter won out. Will lashed out and punched him in the face, knuckles splitting against the sharp swell of Hannibal’s cheekbone. He went down hard, and Will followed him to the ground, fisting his hands in Hannibal’s sweater. He was starting to feel slightly crazy, but how was that new.

“Your word? Your  _ word _ ?” he spat, shaking Hannibal forcefully. “I gave you my goddamn life, Hannibal. My mind. My  _ body _ . And you threw it all back in my face.” 

Hannibal didn’t protest the rough treatment, unresisting until Will abruptly released him and let him fall to the floor. He pushed up to his elbows with a grunt of pain as Will banished himself to the sofa and ran a shaking hand over his face. 

“Just tell me why,” he said, voice muffled. “After everything. Why lead me on this merry fucking chase if you just planned to kill me? Why not just let Dolarhyde finish what he started?”

Hannibal was silent so long that Will forced himself to look at him. His expression was that same broken shell as before when Hannibal had tried to drug him, and Will didn’t know if it made him want to scream or sob. Then: “I have no desire to kill you,” he rasped. “I thought you planned to leave. I wanted…” Hannibal swallowed once, heavily. “I’d hoped to compel you to stay.”

Will felt his jaw drop. For a moment he couldn’t find his voice. “Leave,” he forced out eventually. The word fell like an axe coming down. “Me.”

Breathing out a slow, ragged breath, Hannibal dropped his chin to his chest and closed his eyes, seeming to collect himself. He said, “From your comments last night, it became clear to me that you were unaware of the part you played in our survival. I was apprehensive of what might happen when you remembered. It seemed… only a matter of time.”

Will didn’t immediately answer, still staring at Hannibal intently. “You mean remembered something outside of how I threatened our survival in the first place?” he finally asked, incredulous. Side-eyeing Hannibal, he continued, “I remember lying on the beach after you swam us to shore. Next thing I knew, I woke up in bed with you next to me.” Will paused to watch him, suddenly wary. “Why do I get the feeling there’s something you aren’t telling me, Hannibal?”

With a wince, Hannibal sat upright and used the closest available flat surface--the dining room table--to push himself to standing. Will had nearly forgotten, but he’d set out a glass of water, painkillers, and antibiotics for whenever Hannibal woke up. Considerate nursemaid, Hannibal had called him. He wished he could take it back. Hannibal took the pills, correctly divining why they were there, then drained the water. Swallowing with a grimace, he slowly shuffled to the couch.

Looking down at Will, he asked, “May I please sit?” At Will’s nod, he gingerly lowered himself to the cushion after Will shifted to the side to make room.

He could feel Hannibal studying him. Hesitantly Hannibal reached out, telegraphing his intentions clearly, and a shiver went through Will at the softness with which Hannibal stroked his cheek. 

Will couldn’t find it in himself to refuse the touch. A part of him would always associate Hannibal caressing his face with the night Abigail died, the heart-stopping tender moment before Hannibal’s knife entered his belly. Will had almost expected a kiss then but got pain instead. Now he knew Hannibal’s love too, his capacity for kindness, for pleasure. It had been only days since he gave himself to Hannibal on the cliff, and already he longed to replace the painful memories with something else, something full of promise. He just didn’t know if they ever would. 

Gently Hannibal turned Will’s face so they were looking at one another. “Good Will,” he murmured, almost a whisper. “Beautiful good Will. Our positions have reversed themselves; I’m no longer your paddle. You’re mine. It was you who pulled us to safety that night. I merely saw to our injuries when I was able. When you needed me to.”

Dismay brought Will up short. He didn’t know what threw him more: the unexpectedness of Hannibal’s answer or the sheer impossibility of what he was telling him. Will made to move away, but Hannibal’s hand was a patient restraint against his neck. 

“I--”  It was all he could get out. Uselessly his mouth worked until he remembered to close it, and his throat clicked on a swallow. 

Automatically Will’s eyes drifted closed as his mind factored in the new information, peeled back the evidence layer by layer. He had been in so much pain on waking. Not the pain of impact, but exertion; Will remembered thinking he felt like he’d run a marathon, but no. It was because he’d fallen a hundred feet, then swam to shore hauling himself and a grown man’s dead weight, fuelled by nothing but adrenaline and righteous purpose. Relentless icy waves had battered them like a ship being dashed upon the rocks, but getting Hannibal to shore had been Will’s only purpose, the only thing that mattered. Hannibal, his to kill and his to save. It took attempting the former to make him realize how much he wanted the latter. Restlessly Will pushed up from the couch and stalked in an agitated circle, dragging his fingers through his hair.

“You seem shocked,” said Hannibal, watching him closely. That edge of guardedness had returned to his expression, and Will began to see shades of what Hannibal had been so afraid of. “Why?”

Will was unable to answer, unsure of his own thoughts. It was such a small thing, but he struggled to reconcile this new fact with what he had been so certain of before. He wasn’t naive enough to think it didn’t matter who’d saved whom, else Hannibal wouldn’t have corrected him. He’d knowingly rescued a monster.  _ Two _ monsters. That could mean very different things between the two of them. Will recognized the particular softness in Hannibal’s voice to mean he hadn’t merely filed the details of his rescue away, but cherished and feared them in equal measure. Unable to predict Will, he’d convinced himself to regard the unknown with suspicion. Was he right to? Did Will regret it?

This whole time he’d been caught up in the idea he chose wrong by choosing death, and it was fate--or Hannibal--that spat them back out. Denied what he thought was a victory. But it’d only been him, self-correcting. Self-doubting the way God never did.

Even in the low light of the room, Hannibal’s eyes glinted a lush, seductive russet-brown, and they were unbearably soft with affection. For Will. As if guessing Will’s struggle, he asked, “Is it shame or anger you feel, Will, to learn you’re the reason we’re alive? You thought you’d reconciled yourself to giving in, following the river’s current wherever it should happen to take you, even into darkness. But now you know you’ve been captain of your own ship all along.”

As soon as he said it, Will shook his head and stopped pacing. It seemed he needed only for Hannibal to hold up a foil to his thoughts to realize what rang hollow and what didn’t. 

“I feel neither angry nor ashamed,” he answered slowly, meeting Hannibal’s eyes. “You still think I’m disappointed we survived? Well, I’m not. And I don’t regret that I’m the one to thank for it.” 

Unable to resist Hannibal’s pull any longer, Will took a step toward him. It seemed only right to slide into his lap like the night before, surrounding Hannibal with his body, letting himself be surrounded. He lifted his hands to cradle Hannibal’s face in kind, tilting it up until the light caught the slight sheen of Hannibal’s lips and they were looking directly into one another’s eyes. He hoped Hannibal could see the truth there, the love. Will needed him to  _ know _ . 

“I’m glad, Hannibal. I’m goddamned  _ proud _ .”

“But nor are you sorry you tried to kill us,” Hannibal observed.

Will made a frustrated sound. “Not being sorry doesn’t mean I can’t also be glad I had the chance to fix it. To make it right.” He parted his lips and worked, again, to find the correct words. He found he knew what they were because they were nothing less than what Hannibal had once asked him. He whispered, “Do you forgive me?”

A sigh. Will felt Hannibal’s chest swell against his, and he let his eyes slide closed as Hannibal pushed their foreheads together. He knew Hannibal understood what he was asking, not merely for throwing them off the cliff, but if he forgave Will his forgiveness. From his silence, Will also knew he did.

“Why did you wait until now to tell me?” he asked and opened his eyes to study Hannibal’s reaction.

That odd, blank expression crossed Hannibal’s face, the one Will now recognized as being anything but. He was shielding himself, though that did make Will unbearably curious about what he felt he had to hide. “I wanted to see what you’d do if you felt absolved of responsibility for me,” he said. “Whether you’d leave or choose to stay.”

“You didn’t give me a chance. You just assumed I would take off at the first opportunity.”

“Yes. I’m sorry.”

The beginning of an irritated growl escaped Will’s throat and he lifted his eyes to glare at the ceiling, blinking away angry tears. “You’re a fucking idiot, Hannibal. Jesus.”

Hannibal pursed his lips at Will’s rough language. “I have had years to grow accustomed to the expectation that I will always have to fight for you, Will,” he said. “You don’t always make it easy to think otherwise.”

Will flinched like he’d been shot. “And if I’d said I didn’t want to be here? What would you have done?”

Anyone else likely would have missed it, but because it was Will and he knew what to look for, he saw clearly the way Hannibal’s eyes went dark and flat, the predatory curl to his lip. He went still, so still he almost seemed not to breathe, and momentarily his gaze appeared to turn inward. Savouring the hurt as if it were real. But then he refocused and met Will’s eyes, and there was a coal burning in his gaze that should have been terrifying but wasn’t. It was thrilling, Will thought.  _ Thrilling _ . 

“I don’t know,” Hannibal answered.

“Yes, you do,” Will said. There would be no quietly defiant surrender if Will rejected him again. Not this time. If Will walked away now, people would die and keep on dying, but even in so acknowledging, he refused to look away from Hannibal or cower from the monster on display. It would be like cowering from his own reflection, and Will was done hiding from himself.

He thought about how he felt when Hannibal left him gutted on the kitchen floor, abandoned. At the time it’d seemed like a fate worse than death, worse than feeling himself go under as he bled out. A life without Hannibal’s love was like living in a world without sun, and Will would burn everything and everyone to ash before he let himself experience that again. The thought was discomfiting, frightening even, but there was quiet power in admitting it too. 

Whatever Hannibal saw in Will’s face, his expression softened back to the private look that was just for Will. The lion lying down with the lamb, not tame, but that was a nuance Will was beginning to realize both excited and captivated him.

“Aren’t you going to ask me if the only reason I’m staying is because I know what’ll happen if I don’t?” he challenged. “Or because I still think I can change you?”

That mouth, that expressive mouth, curved into the barest of smiles. Hannibal’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “No. As you once so cleverly pointed out, we have already changed each other.” He sighed. “You made Dolarhyde a monument of your love. You needed me to see it, to feel it. To stop doubting its existence. I will not do you the disservice of questioning your vow again.” More somberly he added, “I… regret to have done so in the first place, Will. To that end, I am sorry.”

“You’re sorry because I stuck a fork in your plan before you could stick a needle in  _ me _ . If I hadn’t, we probably wouldn’t be having this conversation, and there’d be plenty more to regret then.” Will’s jaw worked for a moment before he asked, “Why test me?” 

Hannibal didn’t answer straight away. He seemed to be giving his answer serious thought, which Will was cautiously encouraged by, though he continued to watch the play of expressions across Hannibal’s face, trying to gauge his feelings. Then Hannibal spoke, voice hesitant, considering. “When I woke to find you next to me, bloody and unconscious but alive, I knew you had saved us, fought  _ for _ us.” He paused to swallow thickly. “But even I have cause to doubt sometimes. I’m only human.” 

Will snorted. “What an outlandish notion,” he drawled.

As if in apology, Hannibal brushed Will’s hair back, fingers skirting the scar upon his brow before he pressed their foreheads together, noses brushing. He exhaled slowly. “Would you be very disappointed in me if I confessed that I love you, Will,” he said, voice low.

A quiet noise escaped Will’s throat. The question was unexpected, yes, but he was more unprepared for the surge of warmth that flooded him. Even knowing already how Hannibal felt about him, hearing it for the first time out loud was fearsome in its magnitude. “Why would that disappoint me?” he countered. With a levity he didn’t feel, he dared to tease, “Do you value your love so little, Hannibal?” 

But as he said it, Will realized he did want to know the answer. Certainly Hannibal valued  _ himself _ very highly, but until pretty recently, even Will doubted his ability to love, to put someone else before himself and his destructively curious urges. Had it surprised Hannibal to realize he had the capacity as much as it surprised Will to realize he was impossibly, irrevocably in love with a monster? 

Hannibal leveled a dangerous look at him, but there was intensity in it too. Whatever game Will thought he was playing, it was transparent as hell, but Will didn’t care as long as it got Hannibal to look at him like that again. Predatory.  _ Hungry _ . This was how idiots got their arms ripped off by animals in the wild, and here he was, all but dangling a bloody side of meat over the monster’s yawning maw with a smirk and a wink. Unable to resist, he flashed a smile and saw Hannibal’s look change to one of fond, thinly veiled exasperation.

Hannibal refused to rise to the bait. “We have always striven to be honest with each other,” he said. “But that honesty has never extended to declarations of emotion. Perhaps you would have preferred it to remain that way.”

Will shook his head and leaned in to kiss him, long and slow and deep. His breath hitched when he felt Hannibal move his hands down to his hips and pull him closer. He could see their life together taking shape, a time when, God forbid, they managed to heal from their existing injuries or go any amount of time without causing new ones. A time when they could freely express this mutual hunger. Already Will wanted to sink into the sensual slide of their lips, straight down into Hannibal’s body. He was all too aware of Hannibal’s ability to set him aflame. Without anything to hold them back, the result would be explosive. Devastating. Will could hardly wait. 

“I don’t want anything to remain the way it was,” he said as he pulled away. Eyes intent on Hannibal’s, he slid his fingers into the hair at his temples and caressed the sides of his face with his thumbs, stroked them down his faintly stubbled cheeks. “It can’t. Not after everything. Not when I feel the same way.”

“Do you?” Hannibal lifted his eyebrows, as if in surprise to hear Will say it. And yet they weren’t the words but the veil in front of them, and Will so badly wanted to live behind it. But he had to be the one to pull it aside and take the first step, reach out and accept the hand Hannibal was holding out to him.

“Yes. Whatever our past sins against each other…” Will swallowed. Met Hannibal’s eyes. “I’ve never been in love like this before. Or felt so alive.” 

A crooked smile of unbearable happiness tilted Hannibal’s mouth, and he leaned into Will’s touch, laid a kiss against the base of his thumb. For a moment he breathed in Will’s scent before he said, “For me, one does not exist without the other.” 

Will returned the smile helplessly, finding Hannibal’s unabashed joy contagious. “No me without you,” he agreed. “And no you without me.” 

“Then ours will be a new world and a new life.”

The affection in his eyes was an addictive thrill, as heady as the slide of Will’s knife through flesh or the taste of blood on his tongue. It was like looking in a mirror and simultaneously reaching out into the darkness to feel the darkness reach back. Two monsters, identically different, remaking themselves every time they touched. Becoming more alike each time, for better or worse, but becoming together. Changing together.

“And where will this new world be?” he asked.

Will felt Hannibal hold on to him a little tighter, and Will matched the force of that embrace with his own. Pressing a kiss against Will’s forehead, Hannibal said, “You are the captain of our fate, Will. Wherever you choose to go, I’ll follow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings:  
> \- Forced drugging  
> \- Corpse mutilation (canon-typical)  
> \- Mild bondage (initially of the unsexy variety)
> 
> Will's tableau is a play on Juan Valverde de Amusco's [_Historia de la composicion del cuerpo humano_ (Rome, 1560)](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Juan_Valverde_de_Amusco#/media/File:Valverde_p64.jpg), which Hannibal would certainly appreciate given its thematic similarities to _The Wound Man_.

**Author's Note:**

> Some potential warnings:  
> \- Ch 2: Hannibal and Will deconstruct Will's fairly heteronormative ideas about male and female gender/sex roles in relationships


End file.
